


Ang Pagiging Bughaw ng Rosas ni Joven Hernando

by bukkunmoonsin (bukkunkun)



Category: Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Break Up, Even For This Fandom, F/F, F/M, Feels, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Joven Needs A Hug, Loss, Loss of Innocence, M/M, Someone stop me, Takes A Lot Of Historical Liberties, The Hype For This Fic Wasn't Worth It, This Fic Is Too Sad, Tragic Romance, War Era, dear lord my lunasona is in here, dejk it depends on who you're asking, please make the joven needs a hug tag a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-07 02:04:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 35,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukkunkun/pseuds/bukkunmoonsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(At Ang Sandaling Oras ng Kaligayahan ni Apolinario Mabini)</p><p>It has been believed that blue rose hosts were the sources of misery among men. They were the bane of people's existences. They were the reason the sun shies from the moon at night. They were stigmatized, shunned, and hurt, but what does it take for a rose to stop blooming?</p><p>And how long does its blooming last?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bracts

**Author's Note:**

> [the rose au tag on Tumblr](http://bukkun-moonsin.tumblr.com/tagged/rose%20au).  
>  not sure what I mean? read it up **[here](http://yhviia.tumblr.com/post/131816360550/heneral-luna-rose-au) ** and [**here**](http://yhviia.tumblr.com/post/131867037050/i-got-into-some-thinking-and-came-with-some-more).
> 
> © [](http://tmblr.co/mwTTkC2C4pj3iejLlaWqVRw)[](http://tmblr.co/mwTTkC2C4pj3iejLlaWqVRw)[@yhviia](http://tmblr.co/mwTTkC2C4pj3iejLlaWqVRw) and [flower design](http://flattopsatlumpia.tumblr.com/post/132329041739) by [](http://tmblr.co/mLKngzPHj0Wmwy8Vu-Bv8nA)@flattopsatlumpia.
> 
> Finally, on AO3! Thank you for joining the ride with me, guys. I mean it. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Philippines had been an interesting colony to take for the Spaniards. The natives had something… interesting with regards to their bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bract is a modified leaf that sometimes serves as an attractant to a flower, despite not being the flower itself. literally, nature’s plant cock tease. ganito yung chapter today. yata. not sure. basta. kayo bahala mag-decide.

The Philippines had been an interesting colony to take for the Spaniards. The natives had something… interesting with regards to their bodies.

They had an extra floral organ. A flower, growing from their wrist, stems branching out from their veins and into a bud that grew above the skin like how they usually would along the stalks of plants. Before they arrived, the flowers were tiny, wildflowers that grew in the area of the indigenous tribes, but before long, intermarriages, and other mixing happened, and the flowers changed from tiny wild blooms, to beautiful, blooming roses.

Yet somehow it only appeared on Filipinos. It was something the Spaniards always held a grudge on.

Children were born with a tiny nub of a bud. As infants, the rosebud grew in size, but never bloomed, staying hidden inside the green sepals before they bloomed.

On the advent of puberty, the sepals split open, and would reveal the beautiful, pure white rosebud inside. As the Filipinos grew, the rose would open, and slowly, the white petals would change colour to suit its host’s personality.

The colour of the roses soon became something the Spaniards and the Ilustrado obsessed over, and the meanings behind them caused quite a rift in society. What was once careful respect and quiet understanding turned to harsh whispers behind people walking by at the single spy of rose colouration on someone’s wrist, and it was enough to keep the _Don_ s and the _Donya_ s entertained for days to come.

Then the Revolution happened. The Spaniards were driven from the nation by the Americans, and soon the Filipinos had something bigger to worry about.

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” the newly-promoted General Del Pilar murmured to himself, in the silence of Aguinaldo’s room. He thumbed at the petals on the orange rose on his wrist, smooth black leather creaking against rustling soft orange, and Aguinaldo swatted at his hand like a father catching his son’s hand stealing some food.

“Treat your rose with respect, General. That is your heart. Your blood—your life.”

“Yes, sir.” Del Pilar replied with a quiet finality, and peered at the purple bloom on Aguinaldo’s wrist. “… What do you suppose we do?” he asked.

Aguinaldo lifted his hand from the stacks of pamphlets under it, and looked at him pointedly.

“I want you to do something for me.”

Del Pilar stood upright to attention. “Sir.”

“Fetch me the paralytic Apolinario Mabini.” He said, “Have this letter delivered, and should he accept, get ready to bring him here to Kawit.”

“Sir.” Del Pilar nodded, and gave the man a salute, before taking the letter. He made a move to leave, when the man spoke again.

“And, General—”

Del Pilar looked at him, and there was steel in the man’s voice and eyes.

“Do not fail me.”

“I will not.” He replied simply, and walked out the door.

* * *

“Ah, Joven, my boy, you’re nearly 21 and your rose is still as white as ever!” his mother chided him lightly, patting his hair like she always did, and the young man sighed.

“ _’Nay_ , please. I’m _trying_ to get it to colour, but—”

“Ah, nonsense. Let it grow on its own!” she smiled, and he eyed the yellow rose on her wrist with poorly-concealed disapproval. “Oh, _Jovelito_ , you’ll get your colour someday!”

“My rose has bloomed, _‘nay_ , but it doesn’t have a colour yet! No one is going to take me seriously!”

“Oh, nonsense. You’re the purest boy people have met—oh, you should have entered the church! You’d make a wonderful _sacristan_!” she cooed, and cupped Joven’s rose in her hands reverently. “Ah, it’s so beautiful, the white rose. Why, I—”

“Divina,” his father hurried into the room they were in, out of breath and visibly shaken. “Joven.”

“ _’Tay_.” Joven breathed, “What—”

“Joven, go—hide!” his father ordered, “Out the back door; run, and don’t look back!”

“Wait—what—”

“Go, _anak_!” his mother gasped, already understanding what Joven could not. She grabbed his arm, pulled him up from his seat and grabbed a bag—how long had she prepared that bag? That was _his_ —and slung it on his shoulder. “Run to the stable. Get a horse. You should go to your writer friends for a while. _Mama_ and _papa_ love you, son.”

“Wait— _nay_ —”

She kissed him on the cheeks, and pulled him into a hug, and his father rushed to him to do the same, before they bodily pushed him out of their small house. Joven blinked at the door, dazed, and lifted his hand to turn the knob and open it again, when heard the front door slam open.

“ _Freeze! Hold your hands up in the air!_ ”

His blood froze in his veins, and the petals on his wrist shook.

Americans.

Shock and horror didn’t need to tell him twice about running. His feet carried him around, while his head screamed for him to go back, to come back for his parents, but his body carried him away, to the tree where their horse, _Taptap_ , was. He mounted, panting heavily, and looked back at his house.

He could hear his mother sobbing, and he could hear his father pleading for their lives.

There was no mention of him.

His heart stung, but he had to kick the horse to run, far, far away—

And there was that terrible, terrible gunshot, and his heart leapt to his throat.

He came to a stop at the top of a hill, where he could see into the window of his house, and he saw his mother slumped over their dining room table.

Her rose, oh, _God_ her rose used to be so yellow.

Now it was dark, black, like the soot on Joven’s sleeve. His eyes welled with tears, horror and pain rushing through his chest like the floods in monsoon, and he jolted when he saw his father slammed into the table beside her.

His rose was peach. It was a pretty bright peach, and it was the colour Joven wished would appear on his own wrist.

An American grabbed his father’s rose, inquisitive, and he asked something of his companions. Joven feared for the worst, as his father struggled weakly. Joven could see his arm bent horrendously out of shape.

Another American took his mother’s rose, cutting it out of her hand, and Joven fought the urge to throw up, tears welling in his eyes as he watched his _mama_ ’s blood coat the table beneath her dead body.

“Dear God, oh dear God,” he shakily breathed, “Please, please, no—”

There was a terrible, heart-breaking moment, long and drawn-out, as his father _screamed_ in anguish, in _agony_ , as the American soldier pulled his peach rose out.

Joven couldn’t stay. Couldn’t bear to watch, but he was rooted to the spot, transfixed in fear, in shock, in _grief_.

He died halfway through all the vine-cutting.

_There was so much blood._

The American grinned, and pinned the peach rose on his uniform.

Joven wanted to put a bullet between his eyes.

Instead, he bit back his tears, and kicked the horse to run, far, far away. Away to the city, where he knew there would be someone there waiting for him.


	2. peduncle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Joven hasn’t spoken for days.” The young man said quietly, peering at the young man sitting in the _sala_ armchair. “I’m starting to get worried, Elias. What happened to him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welllll anyway this turned into more world building and exposition!!!! i think the angst will come up sooner or later, when pole and joven are less,,, lonely. yeah. more rose colour issues smh at these people and the colonial mindset they’ve been forced to grow up with anyway sana hindi kayo ma-bore???? may mga 4 chapters pa yata naman ito. the angst may come later. i think. shet.  this is one of the more serious fics i’ve written i think,,,,
> 
>  **disclaimer:**  I... borrowed names from Pepe bebe’s novels for Joven’s writer friends’ names. Thought it’d be fitting, wala lang. 8)))))) 

“Joven hasn’t spoken for days.” The young man said quietly, peering at the young man sitting in the _sala_ armchair. “I’m starting to get worried, Elias. What happened to him?”

The older young man frowned, and twirled the fountain pen in his hands.

“We’ll only find out when he tells us, Crisostomo.” He replied pensively. “In the meantime, I can see your rose is colouring farther than pink.”

Crisostomo blinked, and looked down at his wrist. The pink in his rose had started growing a darker shade, slowly turning into a gradient of red, and he beamed.

“Ah, yes. Maria thinks it will turn bright red.” He replied.

“Hm,” Elias smirked slightly, thumbing at his own rose, dark like the blood that ran through his veins. “Yet Joven’s is still white.”

Crisostomo frowned at that. “Yes, I _did_ find that odd.” He hummed in thought. “What do you think _that_ means?”

“Who knows.” Elias shrugged. “Perhaps whatever it was that happened to Joven is the root of that whiteness.”

“Elias, even _you_ can tell Joven is traumatized by something.” Crisostomo deadpanned. “Surely his rose must be turning into _some_ colour by now!”

“Well, like it or not, Crisostomo, something inside Joven is making him believe differently. His rose is still as white as ever.”

The two journalists looked at each other, and back at Joven.

“… Perhaps it would do him good to go out on an assignment.” Elias declared.

Crisostomo’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean…?”

“Yes. We might as well get started on our periodical. We’ve all planned it out before, and Joven’s been very keen about it.” Elias said, “He can have the first article.”

Crisostomo blinked. “… The life of General Antonio Luna.”

“None other.” The other agreed. “Call him over, Crisostomo.”

The younger pouted at him, murmuring about how it was _his_ house they were staying in, or something or the other, but nonetheless did as he was told.

“Joven, can you come here for a minute?”

The youngest of the three looked up from where he was staring blankly at his journal to blink at the two, and Crisostomo offered him a kind smile. He beckoned him over, and Joven practically dragged his feet to walk there.

“Hello, Joven.” Crisostomo greeted him kindly, but he simply stared at him. The young man’s smile fell slightly, and Elias patted his shoulder.

“Joven.” He said, “We’ve decided to send you to write the first article for our periodical.” Joven didn’t seem to respond to his declaration. Elias gestured at the papers on his desk. “I know you were there when we discussed this, but it wouldn’t hurt to repeat it: the first article on our periodical is on the life of General Antonio Luna.” Joven slowly nodded and Elias pointedly looked at him. “Crisostomo and I have decided that you are a good choice for writing this article. We’ll have you go out to the frontlines where General Luna is so you can interview him.”

The mention of the frontline seemed to have pulled Joven from his state of silence. The young man jolted, and finally spoke his first few words since he arrived.

“I can’t—”

His voice was hoarse, broken and chipping from disuse, and Crisostomo squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

“Elias and I have faith in you, Joven.” He said softly, “And, we think, your rose could use some colouring while you’re out there. Soul-searching, and all.”

Joven peered at the roses on his friends’ wrists—at Crisostomo’s steadily-growing red, and Elias’s deep burgundy, and sighed.

“… Will it really colour like yours?” he asked, sounding lost like a child, and he tried not to think about watching his parents lose their roses right in front of him. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing that ever again.

“Perhaps.” Elias replied sagely. “Maybe the General can inspire your change.”

Joven looked down at the crisp, paper-white of his rose, and sighed.

“When do I leave?”

Crisostomo looked delighted, and Elias merely smiled slightly.

“Tomorrow, at dawn.”

* * *

Los Baños was beautiful, Del Pilar thought to himself, looking out at the forests that surrounded the hot springs he heard from way back that were said to have healing properties. It would be such a shame to miss the opportunity to have a dip in that healing warmth, but this was a war they were fighting, and Gregorio was pressed for time.

He didn’t like waiting on nothing like this. This Mabini—whoever he was—was taking too damn long. He hated being idle.

“General Del Pilar,” a young servant girl spoke up, and he turned to look at her, far too peeved out at waiting to bother being charming. “Senyor Mabini will see you now.”

He immediately followed after her, his boots a moderato-staccato of haste after the rushed padding of her bare feet on polished wood, and he practically threw Mabini’s doors open, half-angry at the superfluity of him waiting for a simple ‘yes’, or ‘no’.

Yet as he laid his eyes on the paralytic Aguinaldo was practically _obsessing over_ to get into his cabinet, on the line set by his pursed thin lips, on the flush high on sharp cheekbones, and eyes with a gaze so sharp it could see right through him, Del Pilar somehow _understood_. He could see all the wisdom, all the insight those tired brown eyes held, and at the sound of his voice, somehow Del Pilar could understand where Aguinaldo’s obsession was coming from.

“General Del Pilar.”

It was strong, defiant and unbroken, completely unlike the way Mabini sat, slumped down and looking so very small in his chair.

“Senyor Mabini.” He managed to reply.

The paralytic looked back down at the letters on his table, and spoke again after a long moment of silence.

“Does President Aguinaldo know what he is doing?” he asked.

If this was a trick question, Del Pilar didn’t know, but it was one he planned to answer honestly.

“If I may, sir, I believe he does.” He replied, “After all, he called for _you_.”

He came to know of Mabini mostly through Aguinaldo. He _was_ part of _La Liga_ , and was more of a reformist supporter—at least, until Rizal died. It was then Mabini’s loyalty switched to the Revolution, and things got rather hairy for him after that.

The last Aguinaldo had heard of him was him in hospital arrest, finding a way to get better through the hot springs in Los Baños. How he got a hold of him, Del Pilar had to wonder, but purple-rose hosts weren’t in charge for nothing, after all.

Mabini looked pensive at what Del Pilar said, and he turned his attention back to the letter Del Pilar had delivered. Only then did he move his hand—his right one—up from his lap, and Del Pilar’s eyes widened at the sight of the man’s rose.

It was… blue. A chilling, cold shade of blue, which faded down into deep, deep black at the bases of the petals, disappearing under slightly withering stems that slid carefully under Mabini’s pale skin, stark, and sickly-looking, like his rose seemed very ready to simply… drop off.

Blue and black. Any of the two would have eyebrows shooting for hairlines, but both _together_ was something Del Pilar never dreamed of seeing with his own eyes.

Mabini’s blue was a royal one—like gemstones, or Chinese porcelain, the blue shining off the feathers of birds when the light hit them right, and that had meant—had meant…

He had somehow attained something impossible. Something had changed him—so irrevocably, he was so _damaged_ by something, that—well. He was not one who Del Pilar would call… complete.

Suddenly he wasn’t so sure about how right Aguinaldo was in calling for him.

Considering the darkness at the bottom of Mabini’s petals, he began to seriously doubt this man would even make it to Kawit, if ever he accepted.

“Does my blue rose make you uncomfortable, General?” Mabini’s voice was cold, like the rest of him was, and Del Pilar forced himself to look the man in the eye.

“Not at all, Senyor.” He held up his own rose, more coral than orange in the light of the lamp between them, and Mabini raised an eyebrow at it. “If anything, I sympathize with you. I know what it is like to carry the stigma on your wrist. These roses—they’re such a terrible curse, aren’t they?”

“… Indeed.” Mabini replied, looking down at his own rose. “They’re like wearing your heart on your wrist, for the world to see—”

“And to judge, like you were some prized meat on a stall.” Del Pilar finished, and Mabini peered at him, a sliver of an impressed smirk on his lips. “A line from one of your pamphlets, Senyor. I had made sure to read them on the way here. They’re quite… riveting, if I may say so myself.”

“Hm.” Mabini hummed softly. “Does President Aguinaldo _truly_ need me?”

“Yes, sir.” The President, after all, had told him not to fail him. “Rather desperately.”

Mabini peered at him, like he was looking right through him, and Del Pilar fought the urge to shudder. Eventually the paralytic looked away from him, and sighed.

“Very well.” He replied. “When do we leave?”

Del Pilar thanked his lucky stars they made it this far.

“Tomorrow, sir. At dawn.”


	3. calyx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps he had made a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok botanical explanations muna tayo :))) i forgot to mention last time that the peduncle is the stalk underneath the flower. so ayun. support chapter talaga ang chapter 2. now, the perianth consists of the calyx + corolla, also known, respectively, as the sepals and the petals. dito na nag-uumpisa ang shippy shit, angst at plot device. the calyx is the first whorl in a flower, so dito sa fic, chapter 3 is really where the plot starts rolling down the hill. oo pinag-isipan ko ito. nang matagalan. nakkksssss. :)))))

Perhaps he had made a mistake.

When Del Pilar’s men had brought in a young man, frail-looking and slumped back in his seat in a weak, lame position against the bamboo of the chair, Aguinaldo truly thought he had made a mistake. His eyes met Del Pilar’s, who stood at the doorway stiff as a stallion, and the general looked back at him, expectancy clear in his brown eyes.

He looked back at Mabini, the man he had disturbed from his excursion to Los Baños to be transported all the way to Kawit, and slowly began to doubt his actions. He remembered Mabini’s involvement with _La Liga_ , he knew about the revolutionist beliefs of this bright, local-produce man, but—

_He never knew the man was_ this _sickly-looking_.

Antonio Luna escaped the authorities with regards to his involvement with Rizal thanks to his brother, and his actions in the courts at Madrid. Aguinaldo had assumed it was the same with Mabini, but.

But. That was just it. But.

What could this sickly-looking man do for him? For this nation?

“Presidente Emilio Aguinaldo.” The paralytic finally spoke, and— _oh_.

There was that firmness in the man’s voice. Like a rock, the cornerstone of a foundation unshaken by the earth, by circumstance, and withstanding the test of time and patience. There was… _something_ , in the way he simply spoke, the way he said Aguinaldo’s name like the declaration of independence.

“Senyor Apolinario Mabini.”

The lawyer looked at him, eyes carefully blank and seemingly looking right through him, and Aguinaldo couldn’t help but stare right back.

“I have received your letter, as delivered by General Del Pilar,” Mabini gestured at the soldier behind him, not even looking away from Aguinaldo, and the man simply nodded in acknowledgement, only barely seeing Del Pilar’s salute in the periphery of his vision, vestiges caught simply by oversight, slivers of what other things he could see save for Mabini’s visage, practically demanding his whole attention. “I’ve pondered over the situation, and I have chosen to accept your offer. I am willing to serve as your adviser, if you’ll have me.”

“Thank you very much, Senyor.” He replied, out of breath all of a sudden, and he realises his rose has never quite bloomed that wide before.

Mabini lowered his head in a nod of sorts, and only then did their eye contact break. Only then did Aguinaldo realise that, yes, he _could_ breathe normally, and he took a deep inhale, just to make sure that the choking sensation in his throat wasn’t from anything blocking the way.

He looked at General Del Pilar, and they shared a moment of silence.

“Thank you, General.” He said, “You may leave us by for now.”

Del Pilar gave him a salute, turned and left, closing the doors behind him with a solid, reverberating _click_.

There was silence, as Aguinaldo crossed the room, his footsteps an adagio, lame and dragging, compared to the allegro of his heartbeat, heat flaring in his chest as he slowly took a seat down to face Mabini across his desk. He laced his fingers together, and rested his chin on them, feeling the familiar brush of his purple petals against his skin.

It was only then did his eyes land on Mabini’s lap—where his hands were, lightly pressed together in a polite clasp of sorts, his rose slightly squashed against the weight of his wrist and the blanket over his knees. Aguinaldo peered at the rose’s petals—and realised what he heard from _La Liga_ was right.

Mabini’s rose was blue. A rich, deep shade of blue that no one had ever seen on a rose in a long, long time. The gradient from sapphire blue to deep obsidian black was more visible with the way his rose was upside-down, and he could see the curved bottom of the rose’s vein slightly tinged red, Mabini’s dark blood barely visible under thin vein walls.

It was beautiful like that. Like a work of art, ethereal and so, so _unnatural_ , yet—stunning, and enrapturing to the eye.

“If I may, Senyor Presidente,” Mabini quietly said, and Aguinaldo’s eyes shot up from his rose to his face again, and he noted how well the shadows accentuated the man’s cheekbones. “May I inquire you of something?”

“By all means.”

“Why are you so willing to allow a blue rose host into your cabinet like this?”

Ah. He was concerned about _that_.

“Senyor Mabini, prior to the arrival of the Castilians, do you know how our forefathers treated each other with regards to flower colour?”

The paralytic remained silent. Perhaps he regarded that as a rhetorical question.

“Dr. Rizal once studied what the Philippines was like before the Castilians arrived. We used to have smaller flowers, did you know that?”

“Yes, tiny wildflowers. Whatever the natives knew about.”

“That’s right. They worked similarly to what roses we have now.”

Mabini tilted his head, ever so slightly. “What relevance does this have, Senyor? If you’ll excuse my impudence.”

“On the contrary; I welcome it.” Aguinaldo shook his head. “To answer your question, our forefathers treated each other with respect and admiration, despite whatever colour they had on their wrist.” He looked down at the purple on his own wrist, and sighed slightly. “What mattered was what they had achieved, not what their colour told people what they are like.”

That made Mabini look down at his own blue rose, and huffed slightly in mild amusement.

“With that form of statement, Senyor Presidente,” he said, and he peered back at Aguinaldo, “It makes me wonder if you need me here at all.”

Aguinaldo returned Mabini’s comment with a smile.

“It pleases me to know I’ve impressed you, if only somewhat.” He replied politely. “Now, Senyor, there are a few things I’d like to discuss, if you don’t mind starting work immediately.”

“Not at all, Presidente Aguinaldo.”

“Ah, please.” He cut in, smile warm and friendly. “In private, you may call me Emilio. Or even Miong.”

Mabini regarded him quietly for a moment, before nodding slowly.

“… Emilio.” He eventually amended, “What plans do you have to discuss today?”

And so they talked of how to run a nation. Aguinaldo’s smile couldn’t leave his face, couldn’t slip in warmth and brightness, and it immensely helped Mabini settle right in. Perhaps, the paralytic reasoned, this was the effect purple rose hosts had on people—they were born leaders, glorious and majestic.

(It was odd, at the time, when he later called on hindsight and nostalgia. Bonifacio’s rose was bright, beautiful red, when he saw it last, back when Rizal was still alive. After his death, and the start of the Revolution, he had heard it turned dark red, instead of the expected purple of leaders. It made Mabini wonder if that was what pulled him to fail.)

Purple hosts were _meant_ to charm those working under them. That was what made them so… _special_. Among all the flower colours, they were among the rarest.

Of course, the only ones rarer were those with multiple colours, and… people like him.

(A fatal flaw in Mabini’s line of reasoning lay in the fact he had neglected to consider another reason why Aguinaldo was smiling so much. It was a common mistake made by many, made ever so obvious thanks to the Castilians’ and Filipinos’ habit of trivializing everything.

Purple roses, after all, also meant enchantment, and love at first sight.)

* * *

“E-excuse me, i-is this General Luna’s camp?”

Joven’s voice was soft, shaking with nervous tension and still jittery from travel, fatigue, anxiety, fear, and loss, and he knew, with how dishevelled he looked, how lost he must have looked, made especially blatant with the way the soldiers he approached look at him. One of them cast a glance at his rose, pure white petals shivering in time with the waves of cold, fearful nerves washing over him, and sniggered.

“What’s wrong, little boy?” he teased, “Don’t tell me you’re looking for _Inay_.”

“She’s…” Joven weakly managed, but soon the other soldiers were ganging up on him too.

“Or maybe little _totoy_ thinks he can be a soldier?”

“I-I don’t actually—”

“Boy, you’re just a kid. Get lost from here—this is a warzone. For _adults_ only.”

“I-I just,”

The comments kept coming, and oh, _God_ , Joven wanted to run away. He wanted to run back to Crisostomo and Elias, and tell them both this was _impossible_ and no matter how amazing a man Luna was, he just _can’t_ do this, not when no one was taking him seriously. Not back home, not here, and _especially_ not right now.

Tears welled up in his eyes as anxiety suddenly struck. His breathing hitched, his throat constricted and he could hardly breathe. Rainbows scattered in his line of vision, and the world turned into a watery mess, but through it all he could hear something clearer than the sound of his thoughts ringing in his ears far too loudly—

The soldiers’ laughter. Their biting comments. Their scathing remarks.

Joven was starting to cry. He really _was_ just a child. A nervous, shy little child, who never grew up, no matter how tall he got, no matter how big his flower grew or how it bloomed. It would never change colour. No one will ever take him seriously.

“To your stations, you lazy bastards!” a sharp, authoritative voice suddenly snapped the tension in the air, crisp and fast, and Joven could barely process what was going on, until a warm hand squeezed his shoulder kindly, and a soft hand, gloved in fine white, thumbed away at the corner of his left eye. “Are you alright?” the voice asked him, all sharpness and commanding tone gone, replaced with warm kindness that was not unlike Crisostomo’s. The hands took away his glasses, and Joven blearily blinked, accepting the soft cloth of a handkerchief pressed into his hand, and wiped his tears, sniffling.

The man—whoever he was, waited for Joven to calm down, and finish drying his tears before returning his glasses to him. The young man put his glasses back on to come face-to-face with another soldier, one dressed more regally and properly, with kind eyes, and a gentle smile. He patted Joven’s shoulder again, and he saw that the man’s rose was a kind peach colour, soft like the curve of his face, and Joven wanted to cry all over again.

The colour reminded him of his father.

“… Hello?” the soldier tried again, and Joven sniffled.

“I’m… okay. Thank you, sir.”

The man’s smile widened, and with it, he practically _glowed_ in Joven’s eyes.

“Now, what brings you here to camp? Have you come to see General Luna?” he asked softly, and Joven nodded slowly. “Ah, I see. You must be the journalist the telegram mentioned you would arrive.”

Oh, that was right. Elias had sent a telegram in advance to tell the party Joven would arrive, assuring him that it would get someone waiting for him to spare him any embarrassment with his white rose, but of course, that backfired _spectacularly_.

“Ah, I have to apologize about the men,” the soldier continued, “None of them had been briefed about you—the telegram was between me, the General and three other trustees.”

Joven merely blinked at him, still weak from crying, and the soldier sighed fondly, patting him on the head warmly.

“I am Col. Francisco Roman—but please, just call me Paco.” He introduced himself, “You’re, uh, Joven Hernando?”

The younger nodded silently in response, and Paco chuckled.

“You’ll be alright if you stick with me.” He told him, “I’ll take you to the General.”

“Th-thank you…”

“Ah, and you talk at last.” Paco chuckled, and gently wrapped his hand around Joven’s roseless wrist. “I was getting a little worried if the men damaged you a little permanently. We wouldn’t want you turning blue!”

Joven had to admit, Paco’s smile was contagious, in a way, and a small smile made its way onto his lips.

Paco was kind, he thought to himself, as he let the man lead him to a wooden house, where inside, he could already see Luna, waiting for them, Elias’s telegram presumably the white card next to the man’s deep blood red rose on his wrist. Paco came to a stop at the doorway, and he smiled at Joven.

“The General is waiting for you inside. Don’t worry—he may be a deep red, and has a bit of a… reputation,” at that Paco sighed fondly, and Joven couldn’t help but realise how he still stayed smiling through all that. “But he means well and won’t do you harm. I swear on my good faith, and on the nation.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Joven told him, and Paco simply smiled.

“Yes, well—force of habit.” He replied. “Go on inside, then, Joven. You’ll have quite the article to write.”

Joven did as he was told, and finally had the chance to meet the General. He was surprisingly kind, words both sharp and soft as he talked to Joven, and the man even promised him to give appropriate punishment to the soldiers who made him cry the following day. Joven, flustered, practically begged him not to, and simply received loud, well-meaning laughter from the man.

For the first time in a long time, Joven felt like here, maybe he _would_ be taken seriously, but Paco’s behaviour had him thinking about it at the back of his mind, as Luna talked about his life prior to the war to him.

Paco had treated him like a child, he realised.

It sent a strange sort of painful pang in his chest.


	4. corolla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The days went by, the sun was still warm and painful on the skin, and Paco… still treated him like a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok botanical explanationssss wew: the **corolla** : petals of the flower, coloured, scented and incontestably the most beautiful part of the flower, the most layered, and the most intriguing. The favourite part of many, to look at and admire, or to pull apart and tear off. Both apply to both pairings present in this fic.

The days went by, the sun was still warm and painful on the skin, and Paco… still treated him like a child.

There were nights when the camp was peaceful, carrying over to the day, and Paco would stay by Joven’s side—claiming to help him settle right in easier—while Luna was busy with other things (whipping the men into shape, dealing with José and Rusca’s shenanigans or talking to Manuel about the camp’s defences). The other _ayuda-de-campo_ in Luna’s party treated him seriously enough, Manuel sometimes pulling him aside to ask him for help with writing composition, or Rusca bringing him along when the soldiers did a few rounds of morning exercises, but Paco…

The coronel chuckled kindly, and ruffled Joven’s hair. “You’re very good at this,” he commented, looking down at the checker-grid messily written with a stick in the dirt by their feet. The pebbles and some pins and pens Joven had served as chess pieces, and there were considerably more of Joven’s pieces than Paco’s. “That’s impressive, Joven!”

He had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he solider was simply throwing the game for him.

Joven remained quiet, thumbing absently at the petals at his wrist, and Paco looked down at his hands.

“… Are you alright, Joven?” he asked quietly, removing his hand from Joven’s hair to cup his rose, and the young man _froze_ completely at the sudden action. Paco blinked at him, confused at his sudden halt, and thumbed at the young man’s white petals. “… Joven?”

“I—I,” the young man flushed deeply, and pulled his hand away from the soldier. “I’m sorry. I have to. Go somewhere.”

He hurriedly stood up, and hurried away, just as Luna approached them with three white mugs of water in his hands. Paco blinked at Joven’s retreating back, and turned at the sound of Luna’s laughter.

“General.” He said, and the man sat down next to Paco, handing him one of the mugs, and set down on the ground the one intended for Joven.

“Oh, Paco. Sometimes you forget what your youth had felt like, have you?” he asked, taking a swig of the water and ending with a satisfying sigh of relief. Paco cocked his head at the man, and turned to look back at where Joven went.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you probably wouldn’t. It’s a belief that came around recently, about that recent find about how our roses are intimately tied to the vascular system.” Luna commented, leaning back to look up at the starry sky. “Have you heard about that?”

“Not in its entirety, no.” Paco replied.

“Well. Anatomical studies recently showed that the rose on our wrists is directly connected to the brachial veins, among others.”

Paco smiled into the rim of his mug.

“There you go again, Dr. Luna.” He chuckled, “Where exactly is that brachial vein?”

Luna shook his head, fond, and pointed at his arm. “Around here. It’s been discovered that the biggest stem in the flower connects right to the heart in a direct circuit.”

“Wow, really?” Paco nodded. “That’s interesting, but why would Joven be spooked by me holding his—oh.”

“Yes, you understand.” Luna smirked, “The rose is directly connected to your heart. Some mothers had taken to teaching their little ones that it practically _is_ your heart.” He laughed, dryly, and shrugged. “Of sorts, that is.”

Paco raised an eyebrow at that, and Luna shook his head. “Tomorrow, we’re to report to Congress at San Isidro.” He said, suddenly changing the topic, and that caught Paco by surprise.

“Tomorrow, sir? But what about—” he paused, cleared his throat awkwardly, and continued, “… Joven?”

Luna smirked at him knowingly, and Paco blamed his warm cheeks for his flustered state. “Let Joven come along. Perhaps he’d like to see how things are run in his President’s little court of miracles.”

Paco scowled at that. “A Court of Miracles, sir?”

“Figuratively and literally speaking. Tomorrow is going to be a circus.” Luna replied dryly, and at that Paco couldn’t help but laugh. Rusca approached them, mouth full of something again (it was _suman_ this time, a little something Manuel brought with him for José and Rusca when he came back for restocking supplies). “Ah, Rusca. Mouth full of something sweet again, I see.”

Rusca replied with a toothy grin, _suman_ still behind his teeth, and Paco flicked water at him.

“Finish your food, dear God.” He laughed, and Rusca hurried to swallow the sticky rice in his mouth.

“I heard we were going out to San Isidro tomorrow.” He said, “Is this the part where that President finally listens to what the General has to say here so we can all start getting rid of these pale flies?”

“Jesus, Rusca, listen to what you’re saying,” Paco shook his head, but Luna laughed loudly.

“God, I _wish_.” He replied, “If he’d stop listening to those _pendejo_ s, the things we’d be able to do!”

Paco looked exasperated, as Luna and Rusca laughed exuberantly, and at the corner of his eye he could see Joven peering at them from behind one of the huts. He turned to look at the journalist, who jumped in surprise, but Paco raised his hands to placate him, and carefully but quickly made his way to the young man.

Joven looked like a moth caught in the firelight—eyes wide and inching closer, no matter how he didn’t want to, and Paco wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“I’m sorry if I offended or violated you in any way earlier,” he spoke out when Joven was within earshot, and the journalist blinked at him, surprised. “I… forgot about the whole… rose-is-your-heart thing, and I sincerely apologise if I—”

“No, it’s fine,” Joven shook his head hurriedly, “I—I’m sorry for reacting like such a—such a kid,”

Paco shook his head as he came to a stop right in front of Joven, and smiled. “No, never.” He said, “I’m still really sorry for how those men treated you when you first came here, Joven, but I just want you to know I’ll be here for you if you run into problems, alright?”

Joven looked at him, eyes wide with something akin to _hope_ , and Paco told himself he was just imagining things, _especially_ when his little peach rose on his wrist bloomed a little bit wider.

Just imagining it, he tells himself. No need to burden Joven with what it was bothering him.

“After all, you’ll need someone to take care of you here.”

The hope in Joven’s eyes dissipated a little, and Paco wondered if he had said the right thing.

“… You’re right. Thank you very much, Paco.” Joven replied quietly, and they shared an awkward moment of silence.

“… Right.” Paco said to break the ice. “Tomorrow, the General and the others—ah, myself included—will be heading off to San Isidro. Do you want to come along?”

Joven’s eyes widened. “May I?”

“Of course.” Paco warmly told him. “It’ll give you time to talk to the General, on the way, and you can see what it’s like inside the Cabinet meeting. It’ll be quite the enriching experience for you, I think.”

“A-ah. Thank you.” Joven avoided meeting his eye, and Paco somehow knew it was his way of telling him that he had somehow made a mistake.

(The difficult thing was, he didn’t know what he did. What was he going to do to fix it?)

They had lapsed into silence again, and Paco hated the gulf it put between them. Somehow Joven had no problems interacting with Rusca, or the Bernal brothers, and even the General, but how come with Paco, he would just... flounder with talking, and somehow conversation and activity dies between them faster than lightning?

It was difficult. Frustrating.

(And it didn’t help, Paco thought, that he had somehow wanted _something_ out of his quiet little moments with Joven. Somehow he hated himself for wanting something, expecting something, _wishing_ for it to happen, praying to God it would—for what?)

His rose’s stems tightened around his arm, and wrist, and smiling at Joven one more time felt like swallowing thorns.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Joven. We’ll be waking up at dawn.”

All he got was a mute nod, and awkwardly they shuffled away from each other.

* * *

The cabinet meeting, as Luna had said it would be, wasn’t just a circus. It was an _afternoon market_. Paco, standing a ways behind Luna near the wall, cast a worried glance at General Alejandrino, who looked back at him with an equal look of worry at Luna’s slowly boiling anger. The man’s rose—yellow and bright as the summer sun—was closing slightly, the petals folding in on each other in worry, and Paco couldn’t blame him. Not when there was this _mess_ and the Americans are advancing ever-so-steadily.

It was a wonder Gen. Alejandrino stayed a Yellow host at all. It had been a common (angrily-whispered) belief that Yellows couldn’t lead properly, but Alejandrino had been adamant, and Luna had full faith in his friend. Paco eventually shared the same sentiment.

Still, as the debates continued, messy and raucous, Paco took the time to look at the other side of the table, at the first—and probably _only_ —purple rose host he would ever see in his lifetime.

Emilio Aguinaldo looked down at it all, face set, and brow creased as he listened carefully to every argument and point, and never did he looked so fitting as President: straight back, strong, broad shoulders, and that vibrant purple on his wrist, stark against his white suit like a symbol of power, a silent claim that he was at the top of all this.

Which, by all respects, he _was_.

Beside him, Rusca shifted his weight from his left to right foot, and Paco nudged him with his elbow to keep him still.

Aguinaldo moved from his stony position to whisper something in Mabini’s ear, and only then did Paco manage to get a glimpse of his rose.

It was a beautiful, royal blue. What were the odds?

Manuel noticed Paco’s staring, and leaned close to him. “Joven would have wanted to see that.” He quietly murmured, gesturing at Mabini’s rose with his lips. “I don’t think he’s ever seen a rose that colour before.”

“Even _I_ haven’t,” José joined in, “That’s _some_ colour, alright.”

“Boys, quiet.” Paco hissed, and there was a brief moment of silence between the three of them before Buencamino and Luna started verbally abusing each other. It took both Manuel and Paco to hold Luna back, and two other members of the cabinet to hold Buencamino back, when the mess was startled into a screeching halt at the entrance of a soldier rushing in, a telegram in hand and Joven at his heels, looking terribly distressed.

“What’s going on here?” Aguinaldo demanded, rising to his feet, and at once the soldier hurried to his side. He took the telegram from the soldier, eyebrow raised, and when he read it, his eyes widened, and his expression melted to one of tired defeat. He slumped back down in his seat, and Mabini, curious and worried at the same time, took the telegram from him to read it, before he, too, looked gravely concerned.

“Senyor Mabini,” Paco dared to speak up, and the whole cabinet looked right at him, even Joven, and he suddenly felt very, very nervous. “Pardon my rudeness, but, the letter?”

The blue-rose host peered at them all, hesitant at first to speak, and Paco couldn’t blame him.

No one listened to blue roses, after all.

(And yet, _somehow_ , Aguinaldo did. What wonders did the world hold, Paco wondered, and later, in hindsight, he realised what a beautiful wonder it was.)

It took a quiet, barely audible murmur of Mabini’s name— _first_ name—from Aguinaldo, and the paralytic relayed the message with a clear, unwavering voice.

“A group of Filipino soldiers had been attacked by a battalion of Americans.” He declared, and the Cabinet hall was filled with horrified gasps. “It was at eight in the evening—and,” he halted slightly, and under the table, Aguinaldo’s hand twitched to reach for Mabini’s. His stems tightened around his wrist, and the President relented to simply staying still.

“Go on,” Luna pushed, and Mabini shot him a _look_.

“They were ambushed, according to the report. When the bodies were found, all their roses were missing, and a following investigation concluded that the roses were in full colour when they were… extracted.”

The Cabinet burst into an uproar of shock and disbelief.

“They’re barbarians!”

“It was a misunderstanding!”

“A _misunderstanding_? What kind of misunderstanding takes away _roses_?”

“Gentlemen, please,” Alejandrino’s voice carried over the din, but it had no effect. He scowled, and turned to Luna. “… Antonio.” He frowned, and the man nodded.

“Quiet, the lot of you! _Mga pendejo’t hijo de puta!_ ”

The hall fell into stunned, shocked silence, and Luna slammed his hand on the Narra table. “Senyor Presidente.” He stated with an air of smug finality, and his eyes locked with the man’s across the table. He said nothing more, and Aguinaldo turned to look at Mabini.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, Aguinaldo tried pleading with him silently to stop him, stop him from saying exactly what Luna wanted to hear, but Mabini lowered his head, and broke their gaze.

He sighed.

“… General Luna.” He acquiesced, “I leave this in your capable hands.”

Luna’s lips curled into a smirk, “What am I going to do, Senyor Presidente? Bite them?”

Aguinaldo’s rose curled _tight_ around his wrist, and opened his mouth to speak, brow furrowed in peevish anger, but Mabini’s hand shot out, his blue rose a blur, to grasp Aguinaldo’s rose-less wrist. The younger man turned to look at him, surprised, and Mabini shook his head quietly.

They shared a moment of silence, talking without speaking, and Aguinaldo turned to look at Luna again.

“You have my blessing to carry out whatever plans you wish in the battlefield, General. I appoint you the General-in-Chief of this army.” He declared, “Make haste in collecting your arms. Defend this nation; we are at war with the Americans.”

“And finally he listens,” Luna murmured, mostly to himself, partly to Paco, who was standing beside him, and the other man didn’t hesitate to poke his General in the side to get him to behave. The man’s smirk only widened, and he pulled his hat on. Turning sharply on his heel, he strode out of the cabinet hall, Paco at his heels, Rusca, Manuel and José right behind him. Joven followed quickly after them, eyes wide with worry, and Paco slowed down enough to walk by the young man.

“I’m sorry you had to see all that,” he apologised, and Joven shook his head.

“No, I’m alright. I’m somehow nearly completely sure that’s what always happens in meetings like that.”

“You’ve no idea.” Paco laughed dryly, and that coaxed a tiny giggle of sorts from Joven. It made his heart swell, even if just a little. “Well. I suppose that’s disillusioned you somewhat from whatever ‘magic’ you think happens inside the Cabinet Hall.”

“Yes,” Joven replied, and they turned a corner. “Somehow, seeing all that makes me understand why General Luna wants to fight so hard for this country. When a boardroom is that messy, I can see why he gets so angry.”

Paco laughed. “That’s also true.”

“… It makes me want to help out too.” Joven quietly added, and at that Paco hesitated.

The thought of Joven entering the army—picking up a gun, firing at people, running into a shower of bullets, dirt and blood, getting shot, injured— _killed_ —

“You can’t.” the words tumbled out of his mouth without him thinking, and Joven paused to look at him, shocked. Paco panicked slightly, and tried to retract his words. “No, I mean—I,” he gestured helplessly with his hands, and tried to look for his comrades, but they were all too far ahead of them now. “… No. You’re… too… young.”

It was a lame excuse, it was a lame thing to say, and _God_ did Paco know how _wrong_ it was for him to say that.

It looked like something inside Joven _broke_ , and Paco knew no amount of words could ever put those pieces back together.

“Wait, Joven, I…”

“I’m sorry.” Joven replied weakly. “I’ll—I’ll be at the carriage if you still need me.”

The younger man ran away, opposite the direction Luna and the others were headed, and Paco was very nearly ready to bolt after him, when Luna called out his name.

“Paco? Where are you?”

He hesitated, and bit his lip in defeat. Around his wrist, his stems tightened, and a thorn drew a little blood from the soft flesh under it.

“Right here, General.” He answered, defeated, and hurried after his friends.

* * *

The Cabinet room was so much… quieter when it was empty, and yet—it didn’t really bother him at all.

Very little ever did, ever since _he_ entered his life.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, breaking the silence that had been between them since the last time Mabini spoke. The paralytic peered at him with cool eyes, holding neither contempt nor compassion, and Aguinaldo ached to at least see something, _anything_ from the man who stole his rose the moment he saw him.

Ha. And they called _purple rose hosts_ unflappable.

“Please, just say something.”

“Is this for your reassurance or mine?” Mabini answered him, and it wasn’t the answer Aguinaldo was hoping for.

“Would it bother you if it was the former?”

There was a moment of silence, before Mabini replied, with a small huff of breath that Aguinaldo _dared_ call _fondly affectionate_ , “Not in the slightest.”

“Then will you answer me?”

Mabini looked at him again, truly _looked_ at him, and his felt his world turn warm around him.

“Perhaps. In due time.”

“Forgive me for saying so, Apolinario, but that sounds—”

_Far too long, like a lifetime._

_Far too much to ask of me._

“Decidedly wise of you.”

Mabini looked at him like he just _knew_ what Aguinaldo had really wanted to say, but the younger man stayed quiet about it.

“… Alright.” He settled on replying, and Mabini looked down at his hands, where the warmth of Aguinaldo’s skin still tingled on the tips of his fingers. “… I do have to apologize, though, Emilio.” He continued, more softly, as he thumbed at his rose’s petals. The softness of his voice caught Aguinaldo’s attention, and he turned to watch the paralytic fiddle with his rose.

It rather irked him when he saw people doing that. He tended to slap Del Pilar’s hand when he saw it happen, like a father scolding his son, but with Mabini…

He gently laid his hand over Mabini’s, their rose petals brushing, and a strange sort of _spark_ rushed through them both like stars flying across the clear night sky. The older man looked at him, eyes wide, as the petals on their roses brushed softly, intimately, like a pair of birds greeting each other hello after a long time’s separation.

“Please… don’t do that.” He managed to say, surprised at how steady his voice is, and at how close he could bring himself to the paralytic’s side. “That’s… that’s your heart. You don’t play with your heart. Not like that.”

Mabini was quiet, breaking his silence with a tiny sigh. Of contentment, or of something else, Aguinaldo did not know.

“Then pray tell, Emilio—”

“Miong.”

The paralytic stopped, and looked at him with a meaningful glance, as if asking silent permission, as if conveying internal turmoil and disbelief, and Aguinaldo squeezed his hand again.

“Miong.” He murmured again, assuring him that it was fine, that they were fine—but mostly assuring _himself_ that _this_ was fine.

“… Miong.” The way Mabini said it was like a fawn learning to walk. It was endearing to hear. “Tell me,” he paused, and took another breath. “Tell me, why are there people who play with hearts anyway?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that question, or what it meant. He opted to reply a different way.

“Perhaps that is what I should be asking of you.” He answered, and he looked right back as Mabini blinked at him again.

He had stumped this brilliant man of a paralytic again. He must be setting _records_.

“I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask that line of questioning from, Miong.”

“I beg to differ.”

Suddenly there was a knock from the open door, and the soldiers that usually carried Mabini’s chair peered in, as Aguinaldo pulled his hand away from Mabini’s like a single touch of his skin burned.

“Senyors,” one of them said, “Shall we escort the both of you back to your office?”

“Ah, thank you,” Aguinaldo stood from his seat, as the soldiers stepped in to lift Mabini’s chair carefully.

“If you’d like, Senyor, you may go on ahead.” One of the soldiers said to him, and Aguinaldo shook his head.

“No, I’d like to walk with you, if that’s alright.” He peered at Mabini, who was suddenly all-too-intently avoiding his gaze, and while that made his heart drop a little, he forced a smile on his face. “Senyor Mabini?”

“I think, Senyor Presidente,” Ah, and there was that formal tone again. “It is better off for you to go on ahead. Perhaps there is something urgent waiting for you on your desk.”

“Yes, but to make decisions on that, I need your insights, Senyor Mabini.”

“Well,” Mabini looked out of breath for some reason, flustered for another, and Aguinaldo didn’t know whether it was because of him or not. “Perhaps this time you can handle things without me by your side for even just a moment.”

Aguinaldo paused at that, confused, but Mabini finally _looked_ at him, and he had never seen the paralytic look so…

_Distraught._

And suddenly nothing added up.

Aguinaldo hesitated, and acquiesced with a nod.

“Alright then. I’ll be waiting for you in the office.” He cast one last glance at Mabini, and turned to walk away, wondering what he did wrong all the way back to the office.

Left alone in the corridor, Mabini sighed.

“Noel.” He said quietly, and the solider up front hummed his acknowledgement. “Please take me to my quarters. I feel… unwell.”

“Ah,” the soldier replied. “I see why you had the President go ahead.”

“… Of sorts.” The paralytic simply replied.

The soldiers quickly got Mabini to his room, and helped him into bed. After they left, bidding him kind goodbyes and a promise to return for supper, Mabini sighed deeply the moment the door shut behind them.

He looked down at his rose, and scowled.

“No, not now.” He hissed, “I thought this would never happen.”

But it did. He couldn’t deny that flutter, that warmth that spread under his hand when he grasped Aguinaldo’s wrist. He couldn’t just _forget_ the way he looked at him. He couldn’t just _ignore_ how soft, how gentle Aguinaldo’s hands were on his.

Something was blossoming, and it wasn’t just his rose.

He glared down at the side where his petals brushed Aguinaldo’s, and felt dread well up inside him to see the tips of the roses, once pure blue, had started turning ever-so-slightly closer to purple.

Red started colouring his blue, and he _knew_ how fast those things could go.

The isolation he had grew to get used to would be gone, and when his rose changes its colour, so would he.

He found himself frightened of it—

Change.


	5. stamen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ride back to camp was too quiet, like an incessant buzzing in Paco’s ears, clogging up his brain. The tension was thick between all of them, like warm air in a still afternoon without a breeze and only the stifling heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warnings for EXPLICIT SELF HARM. PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION. WAG PIPILITIN KUNG HINDI KAYA MGA ANAK. TITA LOVES YOU. also blood and mild violence. but also fluff. and KISSES. PEOPLE KISS. SHET. NAGBUBUNYI ANG TAG SA HOLDING HANDS NINA MON AT EPY. NAGBUNYI AKO MASYADO TODAY IS FRIDAY 13 BUT GODDAMN I’M GONNA WRITE FLUFFish AND KISSES ALSO INCREDIBLY SMITTEN MIONG. I LOVE INCREDIBLY SMITTEN MIONG.**
> 
> **also: if you’re sir mon or ser epy, mahal na mahal ko po kayo, pero utang na loob, please, wag niyo pong basahin ito. 8))))))**
> 
> ok more plant nerdery: the **stamen**  is the male part of the flower, the first important step in reproduction. it produces pollen, which, upon drying and opening ( _dehiscence_ ) release pollen into the atmosphere to find pistil bits to stick to and start pollination. this chapter is the beginning of the end. next chapter, malalaman niyo na title ng au na ito. shet. i can’t wait to hurt u all.

The ride back to camp was too quiet, like an incessant buzzing in Paco’s ears, clogging up his brain. The tension was thick between all of them, like warm air in a still afternoon without a breeze and only the stifling heat.

Luna was glaring down the road again, and Paco could practically hear the sound of the gears turning in that wonderful, wonderful man’s head. Ahead of them at the driver’s seat, Manuel and José were talking in hushed, quiet tones, abortive and short, pausing every once in a while for Manuel to bump his shoulder against José’s.

Outside, on horseback, Rusca followed along, chewing thoughtfully on another suman stick (when did he _ever_ stop eating, Paco wondered), but was quiet. He was most likely thinking about the declaration of war right then and there in the Hall and Paco couldn’t blame him.

And then, there was Joven.

He was sitting across Paco in the carriage, right behind Luna, and he was… deathly still. For what reason, Paco didn’t know, but he did understand that of all of them, Joven was probably the one damaged the most. He stole a glance at Joven’s rose on his wrist, and breathed a sigh of relief: it was still as white as ever, and he found himself eternally grateful to God somehow Joven’s innocence was still there, somehow.

(He did wish, though, that there would be colour gracing that boy—no, _young man_ ’s petals, and that _he_ would be the reason why it was there.)

He never found the courage to speak, never found the strength to ask if Joven was alright, to ask what he was thinking. He simply remained quiet, waiting for the journey, once bright with José and Rusca’s laughter, or Joven’s inquisitive questions and Luna’s rumbling chuckles.

Paco was a quiet man, but for once, this time, he missed the noise.

They arrived at camp at nightfall, and Luna sent Joven immediately to his hut, sending the young man straight to bed with a warm pat on his back, and a few whispered words that had the boy— _young man_ , Roman, he is a _young man_ —tearing up slightly, and nodding, lips bitten yellow-tight, before hurrying off.

Luna pulled them all into a strategy meeting, almost immediately.

Paco expected little sleep that night.

* * *

Joven sat alone on his bed in Luna’s tent, teary-eyed, looking down at the rose on his wrist.

It was frustrating, how everyone thought he was a child.

_Too young_ , they would always say. _A boy, barely an adult with that white colour on your wrist_.

_God_ , he hated it. Why wouldn’t anyone look at him for what he was _trying_ to do, not what his rose said he was? There were such thing as late bloomers, weren’t there? Why wasn’t his rose turning a different colour?

He’d been through a lot. Too much, he wanted to think. He was educated, he was a journalist, he was aware, just as they were, of what was going on. He was there when Mabini read the telegram. He was just as involved as they were, but why—?

His mind helpfully supplied, _why wouldn’t Paco look at him as anything other than a child_?

Joven paused, and wondered why of all of them, _Paco_ mattered to him the most.

Paco, with his kind smiles and gentle words, and warm hands. Paco, soft and caring and doting. Paco, the one who stayed by his side; the one who went after him if he went too far off. Paco, the one who held his hand through the first few days of staying with them. Paco, Paco, _Paco_.

Joven looked down at his rose, bleary-eyed, and thumbed at the white petals on it.

Maybe, if they were a different colour, Paco would…

Paco would…

(Love him? Want him back?)

His fingers pinched a petal on the outermost rim of his rose, and his lips pressed into a tight frown. He gave it a tentative tug.

Perhaps… if he…

He turned to look at the doorway, and saw no one walking around outside. It was the dead of night, after all, and Luna and his men were in the other hut, discussing what to do about the declaration of war, no doubt. No one would see him here.

He tugged on the petal a fraction harder, and he winced—he hadn’t expected it to hurt like that. It felt like driving a metal nail into your skin—but backwards. Pulling it out, after it had stayed in, trapped by healing flesh. He bit his lip, and peered back at the door again.

No one there. He can do this. If he did—then maybe people would take him seriously. Maybe his colour would change—

He held his breath, steadied himself, and pulled harder. The pain came back twofold, and he nearly faltered, taking a shaky gasp of pain, but he pushed through.

He _had_ to do this. Dear God, he had to prove he could. He was an adult. He could do this, he swore. He _had_ to do this.

Oh, fuck, the pain was nearly unbearable. There was a brief moment, a short frightening flash of a thought that went through his brain—

—was this what his father felt like? While he was dying? This pain? As his rose was—

He had to bite back the scream that tore through his brain when his fingers _clamped_ down on his petal, and his hand _pulled_ with such a force he didn’t know he was capable of.

It felt like ramming a knife into your wrist, blunt-edge first.

Joven shivered, mind going hazy due to pain, and his hands shook as he felt warm, warm blood flow down from his wrist. In his shaking hand, he held up a petal—still white as heaven, stained dark red with his blood that had sprayed when he pulled it out of its receptacle. Beneath him the sheets were stained with his blood, and his hand was covered in it, and from the look of things, it looked like he lost quite a bit.

Still, he didn’t feel that queasy just yet. One more. For good measure.

He took another petal, the one next to the one he just pulled out, and tugged.

It was easier the second time around. His wrist was numbing at the pain, and he knew how hard he should pull. It was like an ant bite compared to the first time he pulled a petal out, and he was panting heavily, mind swimming with pain, physical and emotional, as blood trickled down his hand. His rose was stained with his blood, and for a long, delirious moment, he thought it had changed colour.

God, he didn’t even care what colour it became. It could be _blue_ , for all he cared. He just wanted _something_ —

He staggered to his feet, and stumbled to the water dish by the doorway of his room, and practically dunked his rose into the water. He shuddered, feeling the sting of sudden contact and the sudden cold temperature, the likely infection his rose’s receptacle was going to get, but he pulled his rose out anyway, and watched it drip with thin blood-water.

Like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake, Joven’s gut dropped.

_His rose was still white_.

His eyes filled with tears, of grief or frustration, he didn’t know.

He just went through what his father probably felt, did something so—so _shameful_ —and yet? It was still _white_?

“God, why?” Joven’s voice shook, as he slumped to the floor, and looked down at the two bloody petals in his hand. “Why won’t you let me—”

“Joven?” Paco’s voice cut through the haze of his mind like the searing heat of pain, and Joven panicked, kicking out and knocking the bowl of water over as Paco rushed into his room. “Joven!” The soldier’s eyes widened upon seeing Joven’s bloody sheets, and he hurriedly scooped Joven into his arms, panicked, cupping his face in his hands. “What happened?” he gasped, looking Joven over, absolutely shocked at the amount of blood on his clothes. “Joven, what did you do?”

“I was…” he weakly held up the two petals he pulled out, shame burning in his cheeks, in his gut, under his skin where Paco’s hands touched him. “I… wanted to…”

“Oh, dear God.” Paco breathed, taking a single glance at the petals, before pulling Joven into a warm embrace. “No, no, Joven. No.” Instinctively he pressed a kiss to Joven’s temple, and it was like the first ray of sunshine peering over Joven’s dark horizon. Warmth blossomed in his heart, and his petals weakly shivered. “Don’t. This… you shouldn’t have…”

“No one was taking me seriously.” Joven weakly said, as Paco continued to hold him tenderly. “I just… wanted to… prove…”

“I’m so sorry, Joven.” Paco didn’t know why he was apologizing, but it felt like the right thing to do. “I’m so, so sorry.” He pulled away to look Joven in the eye. “I…”

“Paco,” Joven managed to choke out, “Am I… still a child? Am I… never going to be…”

“No, Joven. You’re just as an adult as we all are.” It rolled off his tongue so easily, and he could feel the weight lifting off his chest as he spoke. “I’m sorry—I should have… I should have let you know. Then you wouldn’t have—”

He was being selfish, that’s what he was. He let his heart get away with his tongue. If he hadn’t said Joven was too young, if he hadn’t cared _too much_ to have stopped Joven’s feelings—then. Then his rose would have still been complete. He wouldn’t be in this much danger of turning blue.

Joven cupped his face, and he could see how unfocused the young man’s eyes were, dizzy with the pain, with… _something else_ Paco dared not say. The two held a moment, precariously perched on the sound of their ragged breaths, and the thundering of Paco’s heartbeat in his ears, when Joven leaned in closer, and—

Dear God, his lips were so soft.

Paco’s world froze. It was like time stood still, so still inside, and—oh, dear God. It was truly happening.

His hands fiddled dumbly for a long moment, and as Joven started pulling away, shaky and unsure, Paco surged forward again to capture the younger man’s lips in a kiss again.

“I think I love you,” he murmured into Joven’s lips when they both ran out of air. “I think I really, really love you.” He held Joven’s rose gently, and the younger shivered at his touch.

“I…” his hand curled _tight_ around his two rose petals, and for the first time in _such_ a long time, he felt like he truly was… grown up. Like his rose wasn’t white, with the way Paco peppered his face with soft butterfly kisses, despite the blood between them, and when he felt the man’s fingers pry his fist open, he couldn’t help but open them to let him take his petals.

“Joven, don’t do this again.” Paco sighed, pressing another kiss to the corner of his lips. “Promise me.”

“Never again.” He replied.

Now with this man sitting with him, warm and solid against his body, he never had a reason to again.

* * *

It’d been days since he last saw Mabini, and it had him deathly worried. Was he sick again? Did he need anything Aguinaldo could offer him? Was he alright?

(Was he avoiding him, his mind wondered treacherously, and he steadfastly ignored the little niggling voice in his head.)

He stood, again, alone in front of the paralytic’s room, waiting for a sheaf of paper to come out from under the door. He felt pitiful then, and he could hear the whispers passing him by.

_Who does that blue rose think he is, making the President stand outside the door like that?_

_What is he thinking? That he’s better than Senyor Aguinaldo?_

_What an arrogant man! He should be kicked out of the Palace!_

Aguinaldo’s hand balled into a fist, and it shook. How he ached to turn, to yell at the people badmouthing Mabini so obviously like this.

So what if he was a blue rose?

So what if he’s a bit of a recluse?

Had they seen the way Mabini’s lips curled up in the tiny smiles he tries hiding? Have they heard the way he speaks, how sturdy and solid he sounded, sure of what he was saying, and rightfully so? Have they ever had a long, quiet conversation with him, where they could see and hear how his brilliant, beautiful mind worked? Have they seen the way his eyes turned a pretty _sikulate_ brown when light shone on them at the right angle? Couldn’t they see the way there was a flush nearly perpetually dusting his cheeks, or the way his cheekbones stood out in pink?

Had they seen the way he had seen Mabini? Through the tint of the roses blooming in his eyesight, past the thundering of his heart at the sound of his name rolling from the man’s lips?

He stopped, and realised how he sounded.

Dear _God_ , he sounded so… _hopelessly in love_.

He flushed, and he peered down at the doorknob. He had been told that it was left unlocked, mostly so that the aides could come in and hand Mabini what he needed, and get him out whenever he needed to, but when it came to business with Aguinaldo, it was always done under the door, papers slid under the gap like two children passing each other clandestine letters.

His hand meekly reached for the doorknob, and he sighed.

No, Mabini trusted people to let him keep his peace. He was counting on everyone, and _Aguinaldo_ , of all people, to keep that door closed.

But…

It had felt like _ages_ since he last saw Mabini’s face.

He missed it, those sharp cheekbones, that flush on his face, those dark chocolate eyes—

He missed Mabini, like how dry earth thirsted for healing rain.

He held his breath, and his hand wrapped around the doorknob—

And suddenly a sheet of paper hit his foot. He jumped, thinking he got caught, but he realised it was the paper he was waiting for. His heart thumping too loudly in his ears, Aguinaldo bent over to pick it up, and read that it was Mabini’s reply with regards to the constitution. It was short, clipped and incredibly formal, and even had his signature on the bottom, but Aguinaldo wanted to hear his voice. He wanted to talk to him again.

He stayed by the door. Making sure there was no one around who could hear him, he stepped closer, practically pressing himself against the polished wood, and called through it.

“Apolinario?”

There was no response.

“It has been… a while.” He lamely continued, hoping the paralytic would be listening to him. “I was wondering if you were alright. I…” he paused, and flushed harder. “I must say that I miss your presence in my office.”

There was still no reply, but Aguinaldo wasn’t a purple rose host for nothing.

“Um, please. Say something? It’s been a while since I heard from you.”

A sheet of paper hit his foot, and it was a small one, practically the size of a telegram card.

_You have my letters, Senyor Presidente_.

Oh, but they’re not ever nearly enough, he wanted to say.

“Well, yes, but—I do miss our conversations.” He continued. “I just—well. Is something the matter? Are you ill? Do you need a doctor?”

Another card.

_I am fine. Thank you very much for your concern._

“Why won’t you say anything to me?” he asked. There was a brief moment, too long for Aguinaldo to wait for, and then a card hit his foot again.

_Is this for your reassurance or mine?_

He stopped, and wondered if Mabini was challenging him. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? Purple roses fell in love too fast; but sometimes, they couldn’t think fast enough to keep up with their hearts.

The words were out of his mouth before he could realise what he said.

“Would it bother you if it was the former?”

There was a moment of a long, terrible silence, and he could hear it—Mabini’s voice.

“ _Yes_.” He sounded weak, unsure of what he was saying, and Aguinaldo did a double-take. Was this really the same person he asked for to come to Kawit for him? “ _It would terribly so_.”

Somehow, that should have broken Aguinaldo’s heart, yet with the way Mabini said it—

It put it back together again, stronger than ever before.

“Please, Apolinario—”

“ _Pole_.”

_God_ , why did he sound so frightened?

“… Pole.” Aguinaldo corrected himself, and it felt so good to have that nickname rolling off his tongue. “Let me in. Please. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“ _In all honesty with you,_ ” He paused, and Aguinaldo held his breath. “ _I’m… frightened. Of what could happen the moment you walk in that door._ ”

Aguinaldo froze.

“Do you not want me to enter?” he asked, dreading the worst.

“ _I am truly… unsure. I, myself, can’t trust my head right now. Not in affairs like this._ ”

“Like what?”

“ _Colours, Emilio._ ”

Aguinaldo paused. What did he mean by… colours? Was someone mistreating him about his blue rose? Was this what this was all about?

“Pole,” ah, what a lovely little name, “I’m going in.”

“ _Wait, I—_ ”

He turned the doorknob, and entered. He found Mabini sitting up in bed, a small table on his lap where he was writing letters, and—

Aguinaldo _froze_ at the sight of his rose.

It… was no longer the same blue as he remembered it. It was still, well, _mostly_ blue, but there was a tint of red slowly making its way down in a gentle gradient, turning the petals into a most lovely shade of reddish violet, fading to black as it neared the base.

“What… happened to your…?”

Mabini looked away from him, shame colouring his pale cheeks, as Aguinaldo dazedly shut the door behind him—and locked it.

The sound of the lock sliding into place caught Mabini’s attention, and his head whipped around to look at him, eyes wide.

“What are you—”

Aguinaldo practically charged forward to his side, pushing aside the small table on his lap to sit down on the bed next to him. His expression was stony, set with determination and quiet admiration, and _something else_ , and _why_ couldn’t Mabini tear his eyes away?

He fell silent as Aguinaldo cupped his cheek with one hand, and with his other, his rose.

“It’s… changing colour.” He murmured softly, looking right into Mabini’s eyes, and the paralytic shrunk back away from him.

“I, I don’t know why.” He didn’t know he could stammer. Aguinaldo didn’t either, judging from the small smile that lifted the corner of his lips. “Why are you laughing?”

“Pole,” he warmly breathed, “You’re… changing.”

“Y-yes, I realise.”

“Because of _me_?”

It was egotistic of him to think like that, but he had hoped from the bottom of his heart it was true.

His belief was confirmed, when Mabini broke his gaze, to look down at where his hand held his rose so gently, and sighed.

“Oh, dear God.”

“I—forgive me, Senyor Presidente, I—”

It was enough, he thought. Someone changing colour because of you had to mean something, right? It was turning _red_. Which meant, he could do something like _this_.

He shut the man up with a sound kiss to his lips.

There was brief moment where everything froze, pleasantly still and delightfully warm, and then the thought of would the older man kiss him back sent Aguinaldo’s euphoria crashing back down to the ground. He pulled away, eyes wide with shock and aghast at how brazen he had been, but Mabini gaped at him, and didn’t move a muscle.

“I—I,” the younger man stammered, shaking his head, and his rose’s stems tightened around his wrist in anxiety. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what came over me.”

Mabini was still stunned with what happened, and remained silent, even as Aguinaldo tentatively relaxed a little, and dared approach the bed once more. A moment of silence lapsed between them, and the two met eyes once again.

“Neither do I.” Mabini quietly replied, and Aguinaldo only had a moment to ponder what he said, when the older man grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him back in for a kiss.

They stayed still like that, closed lips on top of closed lips and only the warmth of the summer sun and the still air around them, and when they pulled away, they both felt like their breaths had been punched out of their chests. Aguinaldo stole a glance down at Mabini’s rose, and smiled that little bit wider.

“It’s half-red now.” He said, and Mabini looked lost and scared again, and he shook his head and cupped the man’s cheek. “How long has it been? Since you last felt something like this.”

“… Virtually never.” The paralytic replied. “When my rose bloomed, it… grew into blue.”

Well. Aguinaldo had never heard of something like that happening, even among blue roses, and he chuckled warmly as he climbed onto Mabini’s bed to sit beside him atop the sheets. The older man peered at him, curious as to what he was going to do, but Aguinaldo simply laced their fingers together, his hand with his rose holding on to Mabini’s rose-less one, and his petals brushed his arm tenderly.

“You truly are one-of-a-kind, Pole,” he warmly murmured, and leant against the paralytic. “I hope you’ll let me indulge for an afternoon of silence with you like this.”

He smiled at Mabini, and he received a blank stare in return.

“… If it pleases you… Miong.”

The younger man laughed, not unkindly, and kissed Mabini’s knuckles.

“Perhaps we can spend this afternoon getting you used to this kind of attention first.” He joked, not really expecting much of a reaction from the paralytic—

But then he heard a tiny huff of breath, one he now boldly _dared_ call _fondly affectionate_ , and he turned to see Mabini smiling, even just for a little bit, at him.

“Yes,” Mabini replied, “I think… I’d like that very much.”


	6. stigma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Put this on.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plant nerdery tayo teka: the **pistil**  is the female part of the flower, consisting of three parts: the stigma, the style and the ovary itself. The stigma receives the pollen and activates it, the style receives the pollen tube that grows out of the pollen, and leads it to the ovary where the egg cell can be fertilised. As the last step in pollination (and, by extension, a flower’s existence), stigma reception of the pollen marks the beginning of the cascades of processes leading to the flower no longer being a flower.

“Put this on.”

Aguinaldo looked excited, eyes sparkling with delight that afternoon, as he carried with him an impeccable white suit, complete with a jacket and a lovely deep violet bow tie. Mabini raised an eyebrow at him, smiling slightly as Aguinaldo shut the door behind him.

“What’s all this about?” he asked, as the younger man approached his bed, still proudly holding up the suit.

“We’ll be having a _piging_ tonight. We have some guests over.”

“Oh?” Mabini blinked at the suit. “But I’m sure that a _barong_ would suffice…”

“Ah, well. Some American diplomats are coming over. We’re going to try establishing peace talks.”

At that, Mabini paused, mid-reach for the suit, and cocked his head. “What does General Luna have to say about this?”

Aguinaldo paused, and looked a little sheepish. “He… doesn’t know.” He lamely said, looking at him uneasily.

Mabini frowned a little, but the kicked-puppy look Aguinaldo was looking at him made him soften a little. He sighed, and took the suit from him.

“This is just dinner.” He confirmed, and Aguinaldo lit up, relieved.

“Yes. Just dinner. Talks are still being considered, but are probably going to happen later.”

Oh, with the way Aguinaldo pleaded with his eyes, how could he resist?

“Alright, fine. But I’m not wearing that coat.”

“Wonderful. Should I help you get dressed?”

Mabini’s smile widened a little at that, and he surprised even himself at how coy his voice sounded. “I’m not a doll, Miong, and it’s far too early in our relationship for you to be seeing more than just my face.”

Aguinaldo took a moment to think about what he said, and when he spluttered and blushed, Mabini felt a small laugh bubble out from his chest. The younger man paused to gape at him, and it was his turn to flush.

“W-well.” He cleared his throat. “I—I know how to laugh, too,” he haughtily replied, gracefully trying to keep face. “It’s not something so shocking.”

“I know,” Aguinaldo replied, and his tone was so soft. Mabini felt his cheeks warm further. “I just…” he chuckled softly. “Found that incredibly beautiful.”

The way he looked at Mabini was so… lovestruck. It made him want to shy away from Aguinaldo’s sight, but at the same time, curve towards it.

Love, he thought, was such a strange feeling.

His rose turned a fraction of a shade redder, and the two of them shared a soft, intimate smile.

“I’ll wait for you to get dressed.” Aguinaldo softly told him. “I’m going to wait for you outside.”

Mabini slowly nodded, and Aguinaldo stepped outside. Just as he shut the door, he heard Mabini’s voice again.

“ _It seems I made a miscalculation, Miong. It looks like I may need your help after all._ ”

The grin that spread on Aguinaldo’s face was like a child’s on Christmas day.

“ _Ah, but before you get ahead of yourself—_ ” he could _hear_ the smile in Mabini’s voice as his euphoria dropped to the floor, “ _Still no touching._ ”

Well. He could live with that.

* * *

Interestingly, the President and his Prime Minister were on time to the _piging_ , the both of them dressed immaculately—Aguinaldo in full military regalia, his purple rose in full bloom, clear for all to see. Filipinos of lesser colours stood aside, bowing their heads reverently as he entered, striding confidently to meet with the Americans that came, and Mabini was more quietly carried in by his aides, Noel and Andong, to a quiet corner in the _sala_ where he was handed a glass of water (“No whiskey for tonight, thank you,”) and was left to his own devices.

Quietly, Mabini watched Aguinaldo talk his way around the room, acting every inch the purple rose he was, and he found his lips curling into a smile, fondness creeping into his chest like the spread of warmth across his veins.

He’d taken some time to read about purple roses again, and he understood a little more about Aguinaldo after that.

Of course, purple rose hosts were majestic—born leaders.

But they also tended to fall in love at first sight.

The thought should have infuriated him, but somehow…

It made him, all the more, fond of the man.

It was such a mysterious thing, he thought—love. How it could change you so easily.

He stole a glance at his own rose, half-hidden by the blanket over his knees. Still mostly blue, but there was that undeniable tint of red slowly glossing over the blueness of his petals. It had grown more obvious in the days that followed his first kiss, with Aguinaldo, with anyone _ever_ , and it wasn’t showing any signs of stopping.

He found himself not minding.

A shadow loomed over him and he looked up to see not Aguinaldo, but one of the American guests. A soldier, by the look of his uniform, and the man gave him a friendly smile, and offered the extra glass of whiskey he had in his hand.

Mabini shook his head no, and lifted his own glass of water. “I’m not drinking tonight.” He replied, carefully keeping his tone mild, but dismissive. He wasn’t going to risk upsetting anyone, but he preferred to be alone for that evening.

“Alright.” The soldier nodded, and downed the extra glass to set it down on the table next to Mabini. “So, you’re—uh. His vice president?”

“Prime Minister.” Mabini corrected, this time taking no care in softening his tone, but, _of course_ , he had the rotten luck of the man either being completely oblivious to his ‘leave me alone’ hint, or ignoring it completely.

“Oh, so you’re pretty important.” He nodded, and gestured at Mabini’s half-hidden rose. “Blue. That’s nice. I haven’t seen much of those around here.” He laughed, rough and low, and Mabini resisted the urge to lean away. “And I’ve been places.”

The telegram they received rushed back to Mabini’s head, and he suppressed a shudder.

That was right. Americans took roses from people, still in colour.

Instinctively he hid his rose under his blanket, and the man laughed.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to unsettle you.” He didn’t sound sincere, and that rose on his uniform—white, _putangina_ —looks like it hadn’t been there for just a short time. “It’s just that—well. Your rose is rather beautiful, Mr—oh, I’m sorry, excuse my manners, Mr—?”

Mabini made no move to tell him anything.

The soldier hesitated, and he chuckled.

“A man of a few words, huh.” He commented lightly. “Well, seems they were right about blue roses.” His smirk held _something_ that made chills crawl up Mabini’s spine, but he remained carefully stoic, even when the soldier reached forward to grab his rose.

The flinch was unavoidable—no one had touched his rose, save for Aguinaldo and his parents, and _God_ they were right. It was so _uncomfortable_. It made him want to run away, to hide away in his room, and lock the door. Three times, for good measure, and close all the windows.

It was, definitely, the worst feeling in the world.

The soldier pulled it up, and only then did he see the red faintly colouring the tips of Mabini’s rose. His eyes widened, and his grip loosened enough for Mabini to snatch his hand away.

Sometimes he cursed his legs—where were they when he needed to run away?

The man gaped at him.

“You’re… purple.”

“Turning red, actually.” He snapped, and he didn’t exactly know why he felt the need to correct the man, but his heart was racing, and like a rabbit being chased by wolves, he wanted out. “N-Noel. Andong. Get me elsewhere, please.” Tagalog always rolled off his tongue easier than English, he thought. It was for the best.

He turned, and found them missing. His eyes widened. Where—

“That’s real interesting,” the soldier was saying, and he could see him reaching for his rose again.

His throat constricted, and his eyes watered. His chest felt tight, and his head spun. Please, dear God, no, don’t let him touch his rose again—

“Excuse me.”

Aguinaldo’s English was more polished than his. Cleaner, much less accented than his. It was… strange, hearing a foreign language in Aguinaldo’s voice, but he had never been more grateful to hear it.

“Oh, President Aguinaldo.” The soldier backed off, and when he was far enough, Mabini let himself take a stuttering sigh of relief.  “It’s… interesting to see you here.”

“I came to say hello to my Prime Minister.” Aguinaldo sounded cold, standoffish, nothing like the tone he used when he talked to Mabini. It gave him quite a shock. It made him wonder how long that softness had been there for him to have gotten used to it. “But all I see is you violating his personal space.”

“I was merely looking at his rose, sir—”

“To be a traveller and not a simple _tourist_ ,” he spat the word like it was dirt, and his vines snapped threateningly. A thorn slowly straightened out from his wrist threateningly. “One must understand local cultures, not step on them.” He glowered at the solder, and oh, yes—there it was, the characteristic of purple rose hosts. Majesty. Authority.

“… Of course.”

“And my dear friend is rather sickly, as well. Did you offer him a drink?”

“Oh, no, sir, not at—”

“He did. But I rejected it.” His voice was hoarser than it usually was, but Mabini spoke anyway.

Aguinaldo took a moment to study Mabini, and the paralytic peered back at him, breathing heavily as he fought to gain control over his breathing again, still reeling from an involuntary panic attack.

“Don’t you think it’s rather rude to offer a drink to a sickly man?” he asked in a surprisingly condescending tone, and the soldier stood back from him, already looking a little worried. “Now, my friend will have to head back to his room.” Aguinaldo peered at where Noel and Andong should be—and they were not there. Good, he thought. They had done exactly as he told them to.

It took Mabini a moment to realise the whole party was looking at them, and humiliation and shock burned in his throat like stomach bile.

“Sen—Senyor Presidente,” he fought to say, “I insist—”

“I insist on you returning to your room.” Aguinaldo cut him off, without much fuss, easily picked the paralytic up, carefully adjusting him into a bridal carry. “Hide your rose,” he murmured, audible only to Mabini, and the older man could only comply, hurriedly pulling up his blanket from his knees to cover his chest and arms. “I apologize for the commotion, everyone. You are all welcome to stay and enjoy the evening; I must attend to this emergency.”

He strode through the _sala_ , poised immaculately as he let Mabini hide his burning-pink cheeks and face under his blanket, and against his chest. The whispers followed them, but Aguinaldo walked fast. They wouldn’t catch up to them, they couldn’t.

He returned to Mabini’s room, and gently helped the paralytic get into bed, not bothering to change him out of his clothes, and simply tucking him into bed.

“Miong,” Mabini finally let himself say, but the younger man shook his head, and without another word, kissed him soundly, kissed him until he ran out of breath, protesting heavily with Aguinaldo’s nickname on his lips, breathed against his own lips, before having them captured again, and again, and again, until Mabini smacked his shoulders to get him to stop. “ _Miong_.”

“I’m sorry,” the younger man breathed, before suddenly pulling him into a warm, tight hug. “ _I’m sorry._ I shouldn’t have. Done this.”

Mabini froze for a moment, before relaxing, if by just a fraction.

“It’s… hardly anything you could have foreseen.” He was bad at comforting people, but he felt Aguinaldo’s smile against the skin of his neck.

“I’m just glad to get you out of there.” He confessed, and pulled back to study his face. “Are _you_ alright, though? Are you hurt?”

“I’m not made of porcelain, Miong.” Mabini replied simply. “I will live through a small panic attack.”

Aguinaldo peered at him uneasily, and he lowered his head.

“You can reassure yourself,” he said quietly. “Seeing as you’ve abandoned the party anyway, and the door is locked.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

* * *

Paco never left Joven’s side after that evening. He was always there, a constant in his world of circumstances out of his control.

Sometimes Joven thinks it's because he blames himself for what happened, but he'll take the company all the same. The kiss, he reasoned, had something to do with why Paco was hanging around him that much more often.

It wasn't until one morning, when Joven woke up slowly to the excited shaking of Paco, did he realise what it had meant for him.

“... What's going...?” he mumbled unintelligibly, slowly rising to look at Paco, who was smiling widely at him. “... On?”

“Look, Joven,” he hurriedly said, lifting his wrist and pressing a soft kiss to the skin under where the two clots on his rose was. “ _Look_.”

Joven blinked, confused, but then he saw—oh, _God_ , did he see.

“Is that…?”

His rose, once pure-white like a child’s, was now the mildest, ever-so-soft shade of pink.

The two of them looked at each other, eyes wide, and Paco’s face broke into a huge smile. “ _Mahal_ ,” he breathed, cupping Joven’s face in his hands, and his peach petals brushed his cheek tenderly. “Your rose is changing!”

Joven’s heart felt like it would burst with joy. It swelled, and his eyes welled with tears.

“It’s… changing.” He could only dumbly say. Paco laughed, gleeful, and pressed a kiss to his forehead, and then his lips, before slipping his glasses onto his face.

“I knew it’d happen someday,” he murmured happily, before tugging at Joven’s rose-less hand. “Come on, we’ve got to tell the General!”

Joven stumbled, trying to get up, and Paco chuckled.

“Alright, have it your way!”

“M-my way? Wait, wh—whoa!”

Paco easily picked him up, laughing good-naturedly while Joven struggled in his hold until he adjusted, and carried Joven bridal-style. The young man flushed deeply, and held on tight to Paco, as the soldier strode out of the hut, looking absolutely proud of himself.

Rusca whistled at them as they passed him by.

“I didn’t know you two got married already.”

“No, but something just as nice happened,” Paco called back. “Joven’s rose is pink!”

Rusca spat out his drink in alarm, and it showered over a still-sleepy José, earning him a shout of protest, a curse, and a face-ful of dirt. The two Captains struggled to rush after Paco and Joven, whooping delightedly when Joven raised his rose for them to see, and they danced gleefully behind them as they all filed into Luna’s hut, where he was talking to Manuel about their plans for that day.

Luna raised an eyebrow at them, and Manuel scowled at his brother and Rusca, but then Paco put Joven down, and the General turned his attention to the young man.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

With an excited nod from Paco, Joven said nothing, smiling widely, and held up his rose for Luna and Manuel to see.

The two of them gaped, their eyes widening, and suddenly Luna burst out in loud, well-meaning laughter.

“You’ve done it, Joven!” he warmly said, clapping the young man on the back. “I think you can get a well-deserved drink now!”

“But not too much!” Paco, ever the worrywart, chimed in, but Luna laughed him off.

“Nonsense!” he shook his head, ruffling Joven’s hair. “Joven is a _man_ , more clearly so now. He can take a drink!”

Joven laughed, as Luna continued to cajole him, and all of them filed out of the hut to celebrate. On the way out, Joven and Paco caught each other’s eyes, and they smiled at each other.

Crisostomo and Elias were right, Joven thought, as he looked back at Paco’s kind, loving smile. He _could_ find himself here.

“I love you,” he mouthed, and Paco’s smile widened, warm and goofy with delight.

“I love you too.”


	7. style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aguinaldo’s visits became a daily occurrence, and soon, work was in Mabini’s room, rather than in Aguinaldo’s office.  The whispers came back twofold, but Aguinaldo knew how to keep sounds out of a room. You simply close the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so starts the painful downward spiral of the fragile peace they managed to have. Written for #Day3 (na late) sa DVD countdown!
> 
>  
> 
> **warnings for mabinaldo breakup aesthetic. paco freaking out. joven getin shot. the whole mascardo fiasco. medyo makirot pa lang ito. before anyone says it: stockholm syndrome attempt. gusto ko nang matapos ito fitang mamma mia**
> 
>  
> 
> plant nerdery! the **style** is the tube where the pollen tube goes through to reach the ovary. It's the stalk-stick thing that you can see in many flowers, and an easy example is the middle stick/stalk you can see in _Hibiscus_ (gumamela) flowers, or _Lilum_ (lily) flowers.

Aguinaldo’s visits became a daily occurrence, and soon, work was in Mabini’s room, rather than in Aguinaldo’s office.  The whispers came back twofold, but Aguinaldo knew how to keep sounds out of a room. You simply close the door.

He made sure no whispers made it to Mabini’s room. No rumours, no hints of the outside world. The servants weren’t allowed to talk about anything, and should only speak when spoken to. He wanted to make sure Mabini’s rose turned far, far away from blue.

Of course, the observant man he is, Mabini never overlooked anything.

“There are rumours, aren’t there.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a declaration, cold and unfeeling, not like the way Aguinaldo’s side pressed against his warmly, or like the way their hands intertwined atop the sheets as Mabini wrote. Aguinaldo peered at him, cocking his head to the side.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mabini stopped writing, and carefully set his pen down. He peered at Aguinaldo, the way he always did—piercing, cold. Like he knew what he was thinking, like he was some telepath already with a hold on his mind.

“Don’t lie to me.”

The rose on his wrist was slowly turning into a beautiful, deep violet. The red had spread through his petals, colouring everything that used to be blue, and slowly, in a gradient from top to bottom, the red began to show more than the blue. Mabini’s stems tightened around his wrist, and the thorns there, still uncut, dug into his skin like nails in a coffin. Aguinaldo mildly panicked, grasping his wrist and pointing the thorns the other way as Mabini looked on, impassive, as the younger man fretted over him.

“We should get your thorns cut.”

“And you should tell me the truth.”

Aguinaldo looked at Mabini, who was practically glaring him down. Between them, their roses, now both strikingly similar to each other, shivered, and unbeknownst to them, little by little, the blue returned to Mabini’s petals.

“I just want to protect you.”

“Wars are not won by protecting those you love.”

The two men fell silent, and Aguinaldo’s hand squeezed Mabini’s.

“Talk, Emilio.”

It wasn’t a request. That was a demand. The grip Aguinaldo had on Mabini’s hand tightened, but the paralytic pressed harder.

“Don’t keep me in this room forever like a caged bird.” He continued. “I can’t walk, and now you’ve sent Noel and Andong away.” At that, Aguinaldo jolted. How did he—? “You’ve really made sure I’d never be able to leave.”

“I didn’t—mean to.”

Mabini’s gaze hardened, and his rose grew a fraction of a hue bluer.

“Please understand. I just—don’t want you going back to blue.” He weakly reasoned, and Mabini pulled his hand away from his. “Pole.”

“Senyor Presidente.” He replied coldly. “You _will_ let me attend the next cabinet meeting.”

Aguinaldo seemed to hesitate, and Mabini sighed.

“Don’t make me hate you.” He quietly added, and that seemed to do the trick.

“At least promise me you’ll cover your rose up?” he asked, “I just—I know how bothered you are with it changing colour, and…”

“I will.” Mabini replied softly, and pressed a tentative kiss to the man’s forehead. “Now go. I suppose it should be just right that we move work to the office, as well. It seems more productive that way.”

“Why not here? The privacy we’re afforded is much better.”

Mabini shot him a _look_ , and Aguinaldo sighed.

“… Alright.” He ceded, “Tomorrow, I promise.”

With a small smile and a kiss, Aguinaldo left him, and Mabini looked down at his rose again. He had noticed the change, and he wasn’t sure if the sigh that escaped him was one of disappointment—

Or relief.

* * *

“This war isn’t getting a good move on.”

It was late evening, and Joven woke up from the heat inside the hut. He was on his way out of his when he heard Paco’s voice from inside Luna’s hut, and he stopped upon hearing the tone the man’s voice had taken.

“I know.”

“General,” Rusca’s voice was out of breath, “Tele…gram. From General Mascardo.”

There was a beat, a moment when Luna read the letter, and he heard the rattle of the table.

“ _Punyeta_.” He swore. “We are heading to where he is. _Now_.”

There was mildly panicked rustling, and Joven decided to take a look at what was happening. He peered into the hut to see all five of them hurriedly fixing themselves, and Paco caught sight of Joven standing in the doorway.

“Ah, Joven.” He approached him to give him a small kiss on his forehead. “We just have to move out for a while, but we’ll be back soon, I promise.”

Off to the side, Rusca snorted, and Manuel threw him a dirty look.

Joven shook his head. “No, I understand. General?”

Luna approached them, his expression grim. “José will be staying with you here at camp in case the attack we’re expecting happens sooner. We just have some… things to take care of.”

“I’m off!” Rusca announced, barrelling past the three of them, and he hurried onto his horse and galloped off, without so much as a word of goodbye.

Luna rolled his eyes.

“If, in the unlikely case Rusca passes by from his trip to the President,” At that, Joven’s eyes widened, “Make sure he gets some water in him before he heads to us.”

“U-understood.” Joven stammered, and he stood aside to let the man through. Manuel followed after him, and Paco lingered behind to look apologetically at Joven.

“Sorry, _mahal_.” He apologised, “It’s just… well. A minor setback, if you want to call it that.”

Joven shook his head, and smiled. “Just make it back safely.”

Paco smiled at him crookedly, and with a small wave goodbye, hurried after Luna and Manuel. Joven leant against the doorway, watching them leave, and José stood next to him, sipping water gingerly from a white mug.

“That’s gotta suck,” he commented offhandedly, and Joven sighed. “Ego against ego. You’d think they’d get over it, since we’re at war, and all.”

It was rare for José to be spouting mildly profound things like that, but Joven enjoyed it when he could. “Well. Some people don’t believe we are at war.” He replied, and thumbed at the baby pink petals he had on his wrist. José looked down at his hand, and grinned.

“Well, nothing we can do about that.” He concluded. “So. How does it feel?”

“Hm?” Joven turned to blink at him, and José gestured at his rose with his lips.

“That.” He chuckled. “Must be so fulfilling, your rose finally turning pink.”

Joven’s cheeks pinked as well, and José laughed, not unkindly.

“I was a late bloomer, like you.” He said warmly, and leant against the other side of the doorway to watch the fireflies flitter around in the swamp across their camp. “It took me quite a long time for mine to change colour too.”

Joven looked down at José’s rose. It was a beautiful, happy bright pink, a shade brighter than Manuel’s, and smiled. “It’s a lot like Manuel’s.”

“Yeah, well.” José snickered. “I looked up to him a lot. Followed him around _everywhere_ like a little puppy.” He peered at his rose, and smiled softly. “That’s actually what made me stay white, even at 20.”

Joven paused at that, and looked at his own rose.

“It was stagnancy.” José continued, “I had grown complacent with how things ran. I was okay with turning into just another version of my brother.”

If that was the case, what was _Joven_ ’s reason?

“It wasn’t until Manuel decided to enter the army, and I followed suit. We had such a huge argument—the biggest we’d ever had as brothers, and the first.”

“… What happened?”

“He didn’t want me following after him into the army. It was too dangerous, he said.” José chuckled. “We had such a huge argument, and nearly a fall-out, but that’s when he told me that I should stop following his footsteps, and become my own person. Imagine my surprise when after all that drama, my rose started colouring, the same colour as his.” He laughed a little louder at that. “But, yeah. In the end I became my own person and, well. We’re both tickled pink about it.”

He winked at Joven, and the younger man laughed.

“Well, I know you didn’t ask me about myself, but I decided to share.” He continued. “Maybe it can help you understand why yours wouldn’t turn until now.”

“I think I know why,” Joven replied. “Maybe it was because I didn’t really know what love meant until…”

“Alright, stop there,” José scowled, but he laughed after that. “I’m not exactly the person who likes the whole romance idea. But I get your point.”

Joven giggled a little, and José gave him a thumbs-up. “Anyway, it’s getting late. Go to bed, the men and I will watch the camp.”

“Thanks, José.” Joven nodded. “Stay safe.”

José winked at him. “Don’t I always?”

* * *

The door slammed open, and Aguinaldo thought he was going to get a heart attack.

He had been reaching for Mabini’s hand, resting on the edge of his table, as the paralytic was carefully poring over the sheets of papers in his hand. The moment the _slam_ echoed through the room, he snatched his hand back in mild panic, and gaped at the doorway, wide-eyed, to see General Luna’s _ayuda-de-campo_ , panting heavily, holding a letter.

“Sir.” He swallowed, before taking a deep breath, and straightened himself up the best he could. “I’m going to need your help.”

Aguinaldo raised an eyebrow at him, and the soldier paused, before smacking his forehead.

“Wait, no.” he said, before Aguinaldo could. “Let me try this again.”

He left the room, shutting the door, and Mabini and Aguinaldo shared a look over the sound of muffled cursing, before the young man opened the door again, more calmly this time, his expression set and grim.

“Senyor Presidente,” he panted, “General Luna has a message for you.”

Aguinaldo and Mabini shared a look, and they turned back to the young man, who let out a huff of breath before he held out a letter for him to read. “We’d like a resolution before tonight, thanks.”

Aguialdo took the letter, and quickly read it. His brow creased, and the thorns around his wrist tightened. Mabini threw him a look of concern, and decided to speak up.

“You have to make a decision.” He said sternly, catching Aguinaldo’s attention, and the man’s stems loosened, if but by a fraction. “And quickly.”

Aguinaldo peered at the young man; a yellow rose host, like General Alejandrino, and he nearly pitied him.

 _Nearly_.

Scowling, he grabbed the nearest paper and a pen.

* * *

Paco couldn’t shake the feeling something terrible was going to happen.

Still, he followed the General and Manuel to the convent, and stood outside, patiently waiting as Luna strode towards the smirking Mascardo.

Manuel wasn’t too far away from him, and Paco caught his eye. The older Bernal gave him a look of quiet concern, but Paco gave him a small smile, and a nod. Manuel’s gaze lingered on him a little longer, but only for a moment, and turned his attention back to Luna and Mascardo exchanging scathing remarks.

There was an uncomfortable churn in his stomach that Paco couldn’t ignore.

Not even when Mascardo was suddenly outnumbered by their men.

Not even when Rusca charged towards them, letter in hand and out of breath.

Not even when Mascardo was arrested, and taken away.

Then the news came.

And he understood why.

* * *

He was screaming Joven’s name as they charged into the fray, guns ablaze with gunpowder and exploding metal, and he was reckless. Uncaring. It wasn’t like him to be like this. Beside him Manuel was also running, panting in panic, and his petals, stark pink in the darkness and the explosions around them, shook in fear. If Manuel was losing his cool over his little brother, then Paco was losing his over his Joven.

Somehow Manuel got to them first, practically diving next to José to check look him over, cupping his face and ignoring his muffled protests, before more gently inspecting his rose to see if it was alright.

“ _Kuya_ , how’s the other camp?” he could hear José’s voice, mumbled by how Manuel was bunching his cheeks.

“Goyong and his men have it handled there.” He replied quickly, “How are you and Joven?”

Paco was by Joven’s side by the middle of their exchange, panicked, looking him over as fast as he could. The young man was panting, shivering and was holding his hand close to himself—the hand he used to write, the one that had his rose on it.

“Joven, what’s wrong?” Paco asked, gently lifting him to look into his face. “What happened to your—”

“Joven got shot,” José’s voice rang from beside him, and Paco’s head shot up to look the young Bernal in the eye. José looked apologetic, and Joven lifted his hand with great difficulty to show Paco the bullet wound, and the blood staining his baby pink rose.

“Oh, dear God.”

Behind him, Luna caught up, not even out of breath, and quickly caught on. “Medic!” he bellowed behind them, “We need a medic! Civilian casualty!”

The gunshots and cannonfire were deafening. They needed to get Joven and José out of here; this camp was lost the moment he left with Manuel and Luna to confront Mascardo.

Paco grit his teeth. The Medics could not come any faster, and Joven was shivering in his arms.

“Manuel,” he practically barked, “I’m going out.”

The elder Bernal had just a moment of confusion flicker past his features, before he quickly steeled himself and nodded in understanding. “Be careful with Joven.” He didn’t need to tell him; but the need was there. Paco let him assure himself with that. He turned his attention back to Joven, who was nearly unconscious due to the pain.

“ _Mahal_ , I’m getting you out of here,” he declared, and gently he lifted Joven up into his arms.

The world exploded around them as Paco hurried Joven to safety, but none of that mattered—

None, when Joven’s baby pink-white flower started showing the slightest of tints—

Of blue.


	8. ovary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’d moved office, to get away from the Americans, and it’d been difficult. Still, Aguinaldo was by his side the whole time as they moved into that convent, setting up office inside a huge room. Mabini never really took the time to notice what was on Aguinaldo’s desk, but as silence settled down between them when Aguinaldo began to read his papers did he realise there was something on his desk that Mabini hadn’t seen before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> diyosmio second to the last chapter na mga kapatid nangangamba na ba kayo 8))))) Written for #Day5 (!!!!!) for the DVD countdown!
> 
>  
> 
> **warnings for breakups. broken promises. broken hearts. broken people. broken fic ~~ay wait~~  **  
>  **also, introducing my lunasona, Luisa Bagon. please don’t hate me 8)))) i love you all. if you want to see the title of this fic, I suggest you head to AO3 to see it. Thanks for reading this far, guys, I couldn’t have done it without you all. The epilogue will come out as the Day 7 entry for the countdown.**
> 
>  
> 
> plant nerdery muna tayo! the **ovary**  is the bottom-most part of the pistil, and it houses the egg cells the pollen sperm must fertilize to form not the fruit, but the seed! Tandaan, mga bata! The product of egg cell fertilization in plants is the seed! The rest of the ovary, mainly, the walls, then form the fruit through hormone signalling, either by the developing embryo/seed, or by exogenously (externally) applied plant hormones. Kaya may seedless fruits tayo.

They’d moved office, to get away from the Americans, and it’d been difficult. Still, Aguinaldo was by his side the whole time as they moved into that convent, setting up office inside a huge room. Mabini never really took the time to notice what was on Aguinaldo’s desk, but as silence settled down between them when Aguinaldo began to read his papers did he realise there was something on his desk that Mabini hadn’t seen before.

It was a small glass vial—about the size of a priest’s container for holy water, with scarce markings on it, save for an embossed cross on one side. Inside, there was clear fluid, something akin to alcohol for preservation, probably, and—

Mabini’s gut twisted uncomfortably.

A deep red rose petal floated inside. Remnants of an old bright red colour, like ghosts of shadows on the wall, lay half-hidden beneath the deep red, and Mabini could only think of one person who had a red as bright as that before.

 _Andres Bonifacio_.

He shivered, and remembered that brilliant man. Bright, smart, determined. Willing to sacrifice anything. Understanding the meaning of freedom, and understanding what price one had to pay for it.

The last he’d heard of him was that he’d been sent to be executed. It drove his right hand man—practically his _son_ —Jacinto to the mountains.

He’d died there. It was a shame Mabini never got the chance to see the young man’s bicolour rose for the last time before it wilted.

(It was peach and yellow, he remembered. He wondered if it turned blue in the time he spent alone up there.)

“Whose is that?” he dared speak up, for the first time in such a long time, and Aguinaldo paused in his writing.

“Whose is what, Pole?”

Mabini said nothing, pointedly looking at the rose petal in the glass vial, and Aguinaldo finally caught on. The man sighed, and looked down at the bottle.

“A gift from a friend.” He replied, “I’m guessing it’s a rose from Spain, preserved to stay looking fresh.”

A lie, if Mabini ever knew one. The clot was still there, at the bottom of the petal, and he knew Aguinaldo knew Mabini could see right through him.

“So it _was_ his.”

Aguinaldo said nothing.

“Why do you have it here?”

“Pole, please. May we work?”

“Only if you tell me why you’re keeping Bonifac—”

“That is not his rose.” Aguinaldo declared, and there it was. The authority of a purple rose, bleeding through his voice like an animal fighting to break free from containment, and all because Aguinaldo didn’t want to hurt him.

It was almost flattering, to think he had so much power over such a nigh-unstoppable force.

“You _did_ have something to do with his death.”

“Pole, please, don’t make me—”

“Will you end up killing me, too?”

“ _Silence_ , Mabini.”

It was like the air… _shimmered_. It shivered. It shook, like fragile stained glass windows in the middle of an earthquake, and as nature would have it, Mabini could only bow to the force of the purple rose host’s words.

He lowered his head, forced down by the colour of his rose more than his willingness to submit, and he heard more than saw Aguinaldo panic, and try to backtrack. The man got up from his seat, and hurried to Mabini’s side, where there was a moment where Mabini could see his hands hesitate from the corners of his vision, until he finally settled on taking his chin and lifting his head gently to look him in the eye.

“Pole.” Aguinaldo sighed.

“… Senyor Presidente.”

“Please, just… believe in me.” He weakly told him.

There was a long, painful moment when Mabini pretended to think it over, before he shut his eyes in superficial submission.

“I do.” He murmured, soft like a wedding vow, but opaque as glass.

Oh, what a _fool_ he’d been. Thinking _love_ could solve him. Fix him.

As Aguinaldo gave him a smile of relief, he felt the cracks in his heart rub against each other in the worst wailing noise yet, like nails on a chalkboard, and when their lips touched, it was like giving away your soul for something of much, much less value.

Oh, no. Love didn’t _fix_ his blueness. Love didn’t take it away.

He spied his rose on his wrist, and disillusionment crossed his eyes.

Love, he thought, as he watched the blueness return—

Love only made the blueness so much worse.

That evening, alone in his room, Mabini stayed up late, carefully writing a letter, every word with precise, deliberate strokes, doing anything in his power to not give away the turmoil in his head and heart.

He didn’t know when to hand it in, but he trusted himself he would know when the right time will come.

_President Emilio Aguinaldo,_

_It is with heavy heart that I write to you my letter of resignation…_

* * *

Joven couldn’t write anymore, not with his dominant hand, anyway. It broke Joven’s heart, learning the grim news from a stone-faced Isabel, but it broke Paco’s heart all the more at the sight of that tell-tale light blue tint his rose had taken.

Dear God. They’d barely made it out of there intact. They’d lost a lot of soldiers.

The train ride there was spent in tense silence. Joven was curled up against Paco’s side, sleeping mildly peacefully. the Bernals spent it attached by the hip and talking in hushed voices, and Rusca stared blankly out at the fly-by scenery.

Luna was out front, and he was seething.

When they arrived at the next camp, Luna had in his hand a letter, and without another word, he stormed to the stables, mounted a horse and simply ran for it. Paco gaped at him as he left, only barely managing to not rouse Joven from sleep as he carried him out of the train, but his shock doubled when he saw Manuel quickly getting onto a horse.

“I’ll go after him,” he barked, “Take care of José while I’m gone.”

“Count on me,” Paco nodded, and Manuel rode away, leading them behind in a cloud of dirt. He watched them leave, gut sinking, and in his arms Joven stirred awake. “Joven.”

“Paco?” What’s… going…?” Joven slurred and jolted when he saw the General and Manuel riding away. “Where are they going?”

“I’m not sure.” Paco shook his head, and held Joven close. “But I’m having the sinking feeling this is not going to end well.”

Things never do, he thought to himself, grateful Joven couldn’t read his mind, and the younger pulled him close for a hug.

“Please have it go well,” Joven whispered softly, pain clear in his voice, and that only made Paco hug him tighter. “I’m just…. So _scared_ of what’s going to happen.”

Joven’s rose shook, and Paco pressed a kiss to his hair.

“Everything will be alright.” He said softly, and it tasted like a lie spoken through grit teeth. He looked down, and saw Joven’s rose in the corner of his eye. The looming hint of baby blue lightly dusting Joven’s rose haunted him, and somehow—

It felt like everything he’d ever said just made the blue so much worse.

He buried his face in the crook of Joven’s neck, and for the first time in a long time, cursed everything under the sun.

Peach roses, he thought, really should never fall in love.

They were, after all, always the groomsman, and _never_ the groom.

* * *

The General never gave Manuel the chance to catch up with him, riding fast and hard through the night to get to Cabanatuan in record time. The morning was bright as Luna and Manuel rode into town, the elder Bernal unwavering in his stamina, but even he was starting to get fatigued. He followed the General to the President’s headquarters, and only barely managed to grab hold of the man’s elbow before he entered the convent.

“General,” he panted, and the man turned to look at him, a frown on his face.

“Coronel.”

“What exactly are you planning?”

Luna looked at him pointedly, and raised a piece of paper to wave at Manuel’s face.

“A means to an end.” He answered simply, and strode past Manuel and into the convent. The soldier could only look on, a frown on his face.

He didn’t know what the General was planning, but whatever it was, he had faith in him. He wasn’t going to let him and the men down. Uneasy, he thumbed the petals of his pink rose, and sighed.

Might as well stop by somewhere while he was here. He would be back for the General in roughly ten minutes.

Now, where was Luisa staying here again...?

* * *

“I cannot accept this.” Aguinaldo declared, sliding the paper back to Luna. “You are the most brilliant General I have in my army. I cannot afford to lose you.”

“Then _make_ it so that I have the authority of one!” Luna’s rose turned a fraction of a shade darker, and from here he sat quietly, Mabini stole a glance at the rose petal on Aguinaldo’s desk. It was nearing the same shade, and worry turned his gut like a knife was in it.

“General, please.” Aguinaldo fought to keep face, but his rose was opening, and the purple rose authority began blooming over their heads. “The Army needs you.”

Luna glowered at him, and his hands balled into fists.

“General Luna.” Mabini spoke up, catching the attention of all in the room. “You know nothing about politics.” He said, sending the man a meaningful glance, and Luna’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, before he relented.

“What is politics but children’s play?” he answered simply, before turning sharply on his heel, and striding out of the man’s office. He came to a stop at the doorway, and said over his shoulder, “If you want to ask the _real_ players, those two inside that backroom should be child enough for you to understand.” With a scoff of finality, he strode away.

Mabini watched him leave, half- wishing he’d return, but as Paterno and Buencamino emerged from the backroom, they started talking, and his attention was forced elsewhere.

“Luna has a plan to usurp power.”

Mabini froze. That wasn’t right.

“We heard he was going to get rid of you, and take your place.”

No. Luna was—

“… Is that so.”

Mabini opened his mouth to speak, but Aguinaldo looked at him, still exuding his purple rose aura, and he fell silent, his body shutting him up faster than his mind could resist.

“Leave me be for now,” Aguinaldo ordered, “All of you.”

Mascardo, Paterno and Buencamino all filed out of the room, but Aguinaldo’s gaze still held Mabini’s.

“What do you think, Pole?” he murmured, once silence had settled in his office.

“I think you shouldn’t believe just anything you hear.”

Aguinaldo frowned, and looked at him carefully, before walking over to kneel at his feet. Carefully, he inspected Mabini’s rose, and frowned slightly.

“This was bluer than I remembered.”

Mabini couldn’t answer him.  

Aguinaldo looked at him with concern, and he shook his head.

“Nevermind, Miong.” He said softly. “I… have no say on this matter.”

Aguinaldo’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Pole—”

“Miong, I feel ill.” Mabini cut him off. “Let me just return to my room.”

“I’ll go with you?”

Mabini always said yes. Aguinaldo was testing him.

“No, it’s alright.”

He decided Aguinaldo deserved the truth.

The man was crestfallen, and relented.

“… I see.”

He stood back, and called for the aides to come. Their eyes met for a moment, Aguinaldo silently pleading for Mabini to reconsider, but Mabini broke his gaze.

And just like that, so did what little was left of their bond.

It was nearly time, Mabini thought. Sooner or later, he _had_ to hand it in.

* * *

When Luna was summoned to Cabanatuan with the promise of starting a new cabinet, Paco had the audacity to dare believing that things will be alright.

Riding alongside Joven in the slightly rickety carriage, he absently talked with the young man about a myriad of things, all to keep his mind off the blueing of his rose. They crossed the topic of love, and he spoke of it as pain—a trial by fire, a blessing by blood. Painful, but sweet, like the taste of honey from the hive.

Joven smiled at him lovingly, and he understood why he fell in the first place.

His rose bloomed that much more, and Joven stifled a small laugh behind his injured hand.

“I didn’t know you were poetic.” Joven said, and Paco chuckled, stealing a glance at Luna’s back far up ahead.

“I’ve had a good influence.”

Joven’s smile turned warm, and suddenly the carriage stopped. The two of them paused, and turned to look at the river their troop were trying to cross.

“Looks like one of the carts broke down.” Paco told Joven, getting up to meet up with José, who was heading towards him on horseback. “José,” he nodded.

“Take my horse. The General and Rusca are going ahead, and he wants you to come with them.”

“I see,” Paco nodded, and made a move to get on the horse, when Joven grasped his wrist, uninjured hand curling tightly around his rose’s stems, uncaring if the thorns dug in. he smiled softly and gently hushed Joven, kissing his forehead as he uncurled the young man’s hand from his wrist. “Joven, I’ll see you later.”

“Paco, wait—” Joven protested, and Paco planted a soft kiss to his lips. The young man sighed, and shook his head. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“… To tell you the truth, so do I.” Paco confessed. “But orders are orders.” He grasped Joven’s hand tightly, apologetically smiling and kissed his knuckles. “I _have_ to go.”

Joven bit his lip.

“Before you go, Paco.”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Warmth. It spread like the sweetest thing in his chest, and he smiled at Joven.

“I love you too.” He said, finally pulling away to let José take his seat in the carriage. He got on José’s horse, and galloped onward to meet up with Rusca and the General.

Left behind with only the lingering warmth of Paco’s furnace-like heat in his hand, Joven watched them leave, gut sinking deeper and deeper, like a pebble tossed in a river. Across him José looked on, sympathetic, and patted Joven’s knee.

“Believe in them,” he said softly, catching Joven’s attention. “They’ll be okay.”

Joven could only offer him a weak smile, as Manuel ordered for the rest of the convoy to head onward, the carriages now free from the river. José offered him a smile back, and the two of them settled into tense silence as the carriages rode on, creaking peacefully a moderato march of impending dread and woe.

* * *

José was wrong.

Dear God, he was _so wrong_.

They hadn’t made it to Cabanatuan when the news reached them.

The General, along with Coronel Francisco Roman, was assassinated in the President’s convent, the General sustaining over 40 injuries and the loss of at least twenty petals, while Paco was taken down with a shot to the forehead. Captain Eduardo Rusca was captured, and was being held in prison by the Kawit brigade.

It was Manuel who brought them the grim news. José and Joven were sitting together in the carriage, waiting for the restocking to finish, when the elder Bernal approached them with a stony expression on his face.

“… _Kuya_?” José asked.

“The General is dead.”

With those four words, Joven’s world crumbled, and it screeched to a halt as his ears began to ring with the sound of Manuel’s grim tone. Surely not… surely not _Paco_ …?

“What?!” José still had the strength to gasp, incredulous, “ _Kuya_ , what are you—”

“General Luna and Paco were killed yesterday at the convent. The letter was a trap.”

Joven’s worst fears were confirmed, and tears filled his eyes. “C-Coronel…”

Manuel looked at him pityingly, and silently, he allowed the two younger men to cry on his shoulders as he pulled them into a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry, Joven.” He murmured, rubbing his back as the two of them clung to him. “I am so, so sorry.”

Shoved into the fabric of Manuel’s uniform and half-crushed against José’s side, Joven’s rose finally settled on its final colour.

The pink and the white were gone, and what replaced it was a beautiful, cool shade of baby blue.

“ _Kuya_ , what are we going to do?” José whimpered, hugging Manuel tight. “What’s going to happen—”

“What we need to do right now, José, is to keep Joven safe.” Manuel pulled away from the both of them to look at Joven. “You were our last mission from the General, Joven. He asked me to take care of you, and for the sake of his memory, I will.”

José sniffled slightly. “So will I.” he agreed, “Because I know that’s what Paco would have wanted too.”

Joven looked at them both, teary eyed and so _heartbroken_ , not just for the brothers’ kindness, but loss—loss for the man who reminded him so much of his father, and the man who had given his rose his colour.

“… Thank you.” Was all Joven could manage to say, and he tried not to think of the fact Manuel had noticed his rose’s change.

The elder Bernal gave him a rare, soft smile, and patted his shoulder. “Ride with me.” He told Joven, “I know a place for you to hide. José.”

“ _Kuya_?”

“I want you to get away from here, as fast and as far as possible, am I clear?” he asked, and José’s eyes widened.

“ _Kuya_ , no, I’m not going to lea—”

“ _José_.” Manuel stopped him, and his voice sounded strained. Desperate. _Fearful_. “Run away. Stay safe. Please, just—” Manuel sighed, and cupped his brother’s face in his hands. “I promised our parents I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Don’t—don’t let me down, José. We can’t deny they’ll be after _us_ , next, and we can’t risk Joven—a _civilian_ —get hurt along the way.”

José’s eyes welled with tears, and Joven thought to himself that it didn’t suit the man to be crying.

“ _Kuya_ , don’t do this.”

“As your brother, José, I can’t risk losing you either.” Manuel’s voice was soft, pleading. “I’ll take care of Joven, and I swear, I’ll catch up with you.”

“You promise.”

“I _swear_.”

Joven knew Manuel never broke promises.

José nodded blearily, and sniffled. “When are we leaving?”

“Right now.” Manuel replied. “Come on, you two. To the horses.”

* * *

It was dawn when they reached the wide, open road, and Joven knew how nervous Manuel was as they rode on. They reached a fork in the road, and José slowed down to look at his brother, apprehensive.

“I’ll see you again,” Manuel called, raising his hand to say goodbye, and reluctantly, so did José.

“We’ll meet back home,” José promised, “Don’t slow down for anything, _Kuya_.”

“You too,” Manuel called back, and the brothers parted ways. Now with only the wind’s howling as their company, Joven looked at Manuel over his shoulder.

“… Coronel Bernal?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, Joven?”

“Where are we going?”

Manuel peered at him over his shoulder, and smiled softly, and if one were to ask Joven, it was a smile of regret, and love, all rolled into one bittersweet expression that spoke volumes of what was in the man’s head, all in that one single action.

“Someplace safe enough for me,” he replied, “To leave my heart there.”

Joven blinked, confused, but he asked no further.

“All of you are poetic.” He murmured sadly, and Manuel patted his hand.

“We just had a good influence.”

At that, tears stung Joven’s eyes again, and he buried his face in Manuel’s back. The man simply let him mourn again, quietly giving him space as he spurred their horse onward, never stopping, never slowing down.

* * *

Joven hadn’t realised he’d cried himself to sleep until he felt Manuel’s horse slow down. He blinked blearily, sitting up properly behind Manuel to realise they were in the outskirts of Cabanatuan, right where the General was murdered. The young man’s eyes widened, and shock took him as Manuel got off his horse.

“C-Coronel, why are we—”

Manuel hushed him, and offered his hand for Joven to take. “Safe house.” He replied simply. Joven took his hand, and got off the horse to realise they’d come to a stop in front of a small hut of a house. He cocked his head, as Manuel headed to the door, and knocked.

“Luisa?” he softly called, and a young woman opened the door, eyes wide to see him.

“Manuel!” she cried, throwing herself into his arms into a tight hug, and Joven saw the rose on her wrist—a bright yellow colour, and Joven’s chest ached at the thought of Rusca in jail. “Oh, God, I heard your General was killed, I was so worried—”

“Luisa, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay for long. I’m on the run.” Manuel told her, pulling away.

Luisa’s expression fell, but she nodded, steeling herself. “I… understand.” She looked at Joven over Manuel’s shoulder, and blinked. “Oh, who’s this?”

“He’s someone I have to protect. Luisa, can you take him in for a while?” he asked her, “At least until I return. And maybe, this time, for good.”

Luisa smiled at him warmly, and cupped his cheek.

“Of course.” She turned to look at Joven, and beckoned him closer with a kind smile. “Hello, there.”

“Ah, hello.” Joven greeted, “Joven Hernando.” He held his hand out for her to shake, only barely remembering his rose’s colour, but by then it had been too late—Luisa had noticed his blue colour.

And yet, instead of shying away from him, she grasped his hand warmly. “You poor thing.” She said, patting his hand. “You’ve been through so much.”

“I…”

“Manuel, don’t you worry. I’ll take care of him.” Luisa smiled. “Go.”

Manuel looked relieved, and gave her a soft kiss. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

With the way Luisa smiled, Joven had the audacity to dare believing that things will be alright. That Manuel would return, José in tow, and they’d all run away together.

But in war, dreams rarely ever came true.


	9. fruit (the epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear _God_ , did Mabini want this over and done with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for #day7 of the DVD countdown!!!!! We did it guys!!!! Have fun watching the DVD!!!! MAGBUNYI!!!!!! but first lots of pain. from here. i’m sorry. i’m not even going to soften the blow. masakit po itong chapter na ito. pati ako umiiyak sa bandang dulo habang sinusulat ko siya. patawarin niyo nawa ako.
> 
> **warnings for lots and lots of pain. and blood. and more pain. nothing is happy. no one survives anything. except maybe the elibarras. elibarra lives on. elibarra is love, elibarra is life**
> 
> plant nerdery: the **fruit**  is the output of the flower. After the flower has been fertilised and the seed has developed, the fruit forms in order to help in the dispersal or the spreading of the seed, so that it may grow elsewhere, and live its full life. This is the endpoint of the flower’s existence. It has changed into something else now, for a different purpose. It’s time to say goodbye.

The funeral was a sordid affair. Mabini usually preferred the cold (or at least, the bearable cold) but the air today was more than just that. It was  _freezing_. Like the wind was stabbing him with thousands of knives.

With every step the coffin bearers took, the weight of the paper in his suit pocket felt heavier and heavier, and by the time Luna’s casket was out of the chapel, it was like a brand, burning into his skin, demanding to be sent, demanding to be read, demanding to get things over and done with.

Dear  _God_ , did Mabini want this over and done with.

He tiredly tuned to look at the soldiers at the doorway. The Kawit brigade was full-force today, it seems. That was interesting, and—

Mabini froze.

There was blood on one—no, two,  _no, **three**_ —

There was blood on the  _bolos_  of  _all_  of the Kawit brigade. The group most loyal to Aguinaldo. The group of men who would follow Aguinaldo to the ends of the earth, and into hell, if he asked for it.

The group of men that killed General Antonio Luna, at the command of President Emilio Aguinaldo.

He hadn’t realised he’d been crying until he felt his aide press a handkerchief to his hand. He turned his head away, water blurring his eyes, as he quietly accepted the cloth. Hurriedly wiping his eyes, he forced himself to ignore Aguinaldo’s worried glance at him, simply opting to close his eyes.

It was time, he thought. He couldn’t take this. Someone had  _died_ because of this, and while he had nothing to do with it, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. He wanted to blame himself. He could have  _done something_. 

“Sirs,” he said weakly, trying not to choke up, “I feel unwell. Please—take me back to my quarters.”

“But we were ordered not to—”

“ _It is an emergency_.”

Andong and Noel were back, Mabini knew. He had sent for them a few days ago, and they’d been living among the servants of the Palace until Mabini called for them. Now was the best time.

It was now, or never.

While no one was looking. 

While  _Aguinaldo_ wasn’t looking. 

He couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to Aguinaldo. Not like this.

As the two aides carried his chair away, Mabini tried not to look in Aguinaldo’s direction, where he was  _sure_  the man was looking, and he was  _sure_  he was doing everything in his power not to just interrupt the funeral to run after him.

Sometimes, though he hated them, Mabini was grateful of societal constructs.

Reunited with his old trustees, Mabini had them carry him to Aguinaldo’s empty office, where he left the letter, and after picking up a bag that Mabini had already packed and ready since he wrote his letter, the three of them left the Palace through the back door.

He knew that if he said goodbye to Aguinaldo face-to-face—

He’d never leave. He loved him too much to stand watching his heart break.

They left in the silence of the evening, away from prying eyes, only to run into the most unexpected visitor. 

* * *

Luisa was kind to him, Joven knew, and it was no wonder Manuel fell in love with her. Her touch, the way she spoke, the way she treated him, was so… motherly. If she and Manuel got married and had children, then Joven was sure they would live the happiest lives. 

She tried hard to cheer him up. She would ask him to read his works to her, and they’d talk in verse and prose throughout the day, over boiling pots of today’s lunch, or the whooshing of brooms when they swept up fallen leaves or woodchips. 

He was eternally grateful to her. She never once mentioned his blue rose, and didn’t treat him any differently from the other people she talked to. She’d even go out in his stead to run errands, making some excuse that she knew the town better, but he knew she was doing it so he wouldn’t face the shame of walking around outside with a blue rose. 

Luisa didn’t deserve what he was going to do. 

Joven eyed his rose, baby blue, and  _God_  he hated seeing it. The last remnants of its whiteness was the transparent clot over where he’d plucked out the two petals weeks ago, and he thumbed them gingerly. 

What he’d give to have the happier days back. 

“Joven, it’s time for dinner!” Luisa called from outside his room. 

“Coming!” He called back, and pulled out the bag he’d prepared. 

He’d promised he’d help them. With Manuel and José still missing, there was only one person left he needed to find. 

Rusca. 

He shoved the bag under his sheets, and looked at the bottle he got from the apothecary. He’d been told it was a mild sedative, lasting roughly an hour or two, but that was enough. 

“I’m sorry, Luisa.” He murmured softly, and headed outside to get their glasses of water ready. He’d put just a little in her glass, and, as an afterthought, put some in his own glass, too. 

He spent his last dinner with her with his smile never quite reaching his eyes. He knew she knew. She’d always been so perceptive, and he’d come to know her well in the brief time he lived with her. 

“Joven,” she softly said, putting her cutlery down to peer at him with sad eyes. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

Joven stopped to look at her, and the way she looked at him told him she’d already known what he was planning from the start. His gut sank. 

“I… I’m not in the power to tell you what you should or shouldn’t do, Joven, but…” She swallowed back her tears, and Joven wanted to cry too. “I want you to know that you are loved. Always.”

Joven’s heart broke. Could he really do this?

She gave him a sad smile, and reached for her glass of water, still untouched since he’d put them down. 

His, too, was still full. It was just a question of who would drink first. 

“I hope you make the right decision, Joven.” She said, “Goodnight.”

“Good… night, Luisa.”

She closed her eyes, and downed her drink. 

* * *

He hadn’t expected to see that young man here. 

“It’s… you.” He said simply, when Noel and Andong came to a stop, letting his hammock down to let Mabini talk to him. “I remember you from before.”

“Hello,  _Senyor_.” Joven greeted sadly. “Strange to see you out so late.”

The lawyer fell silent. “Yes, well. I’m on an… _excursion_.”

Joven huffed, a tiny sort of laugh. “So am I.”

“What are the odds.”

“What, indeed.” 

Silence passed between the two of them, and only then did Mabini notice the young man’s rose. 

“That used to be white, the last time I saw it.”

Joven flinched. 

“Not to mean any disrespect.” Mabini amended. “I am, after all, in the same boat as you are.”

Joven deflated, and sighed. 

“Is it as terrible as people make it, _Senyor_?” He asked, taking a step closer to the paralytic, a lost expression on his face. “Having a blue rose?”

“No, not entirely.” Mabini replied. “It’s a rather heavy burden, but it is still one possible to carry.” He paused for a moment, considering what to say, and decided to tell the young man his own truth: “It’s not that terrible. After a while, you learn to get used to it.”

Joven studied him carefully, before looking at his baby blue rose. 

“Will mine end up looking like yours?” He asked quietly. 

“Young man, I am doubtful about that.”

Mabini cast a look at his own rose, and sighed. 

“A rose of deepest blue, after all, is doomed to a life of loneliness.” He peered at Joven’s rose, and smiled softly. It was one of his rarer smiles, and Joven somehow felt blessed to have seen it. “But with you—you’ve got hope. You  _always_  have hope.”

That put a smile on Joven’s face. 

“Somehow,  _Senyor_ , I am doubtful, but thank you.” He said. “Someday, maybe, I’ll see it’s not so bad.”

Mabini nodded sagely. “Someday, young man, things may change.”

“They may.”

It was a goodbye of sorts, the way he said those last two words, and with a small nod, Joven walked away from Mabini. His aides picked him up again, and quietly they stole through the night to his new home, hidden away from Aguinaldo, with his brother. 

* * *

He’d heard stories of what it felt like to have your rose petals plucked out of your receptacle. It was like having nails dug into your skin, metal blending into flesh, and then pulled out, the grate of steel iron bristles tearing your blood and body apart in the most gruesome of pains. 

Yet—nothing compared to  _this._

Aguinaldo stared blankly at the paper left on his desk. He’d just finished reading it, and every word was like having a petal torn from his flower. Tenfold. 

Mabini was gone. 

And he didn’t even say goodbye. 

_He never had a chance to kiss him goodbye._

If death by rose was the worst kind of death most people knew, then Aguinaldo was not most people. 

Losing him felt like a myriad of things.

Bonifacio’s tortured screams as his petals were pulled out one by one. 

Jacinto’s fevered suffering, hallucinations tearing his heart apart over and over again. 

Gregoria’s silenced cries, ignored, erased from the annals of history. 

Luna’s last stand, screaming bloody murder, shot and hacked like a dog in a fighting pit. 

Romàn’s panic. Rusca’s fear and guilt. 

Manuel Bernal’s agony. The horror in José’s eyes at his brother’s petals. The bullet in del Pilar’s neck.

All of their suffering, rolled into one hodgepodge of pain, and it was far,  _far_ worse than losing a single petal. 

Losing his rose at full colour would feel like a kiss compared to this. 

_Mabini was gone._

And like all the suffering before this—

All of it was  _his_ fault. 

His rose turned a fraction of a hue bluer, and Aguinaldo had never felt the weight of his sins as heavily as before as he buried his face in his hands and wept, all alone, now, in his office.

* * *

A few weeks after he ran into Mabini, Joven had no luck finding Rusca. He’d been too late to the prison in Cabanatuan. Rusca’d been shipped off to Cebu, and by then Joven knew he was already miles away. 

(The jail warden didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. Rusca’s accident, she reasoned, would only make the sad young man’s blue rose bluer, and he was still so, so  _young._  She had a son his age, and he was dead.)

Stuck in the ports at Manila, Joven was back with Crisostomo and Elias, both worriedly looking at him, both regretting have sent him on the mission to document Luna’s life. 

When Crisostomo said he’d get colour in his rose, he hadn’t meant  _this._ Crisostomo and Elias sent him off on the ferry, wishing him luck, but not long after they’d set sail, far from the ports of Manila Bay, the ship was seized by the Americans.

Joven’s rose changed one last time, before he died. 

He’d bravely taken it on himself to pick up a rifle, and retaliate. He pushed whoever he could onto the emergency escape boats, and dropped them into the water fast enough before they got caught. Joven returned fire, ignoring the pain in his hand as recoil reopened old wounds.

At least, he thought, if he was going down here, he was going down with a fight.

He’d been shot in the shoulder, and the leg, and was taken prisoner along with other men and women who decided to fight back after he did. It had been the first time, ever, that a blue rose host started a resistance movement, and it was, while futile, spectacular.

They’d taken out a lot of men before they went down, and when they did, the people who escaped already knew them as heroes.

Joven was taken to the hull, where two other people, a man and a woman—spouses—were taken with him. He remembered their faces. They’d served as his impromptu seconds-in command, each with a rather peculiar colour of rose.

The young man had a deep red rose, his wife, had a green one. It was very pretty, if one were to ask Joven, but he hadn’t the time to think about it, not when the captain of the squadron came to look at their roses, and pointed at Joven’s.

In that moment, he understood how he was going to die.

Dear _God_.

It was agonizing. The first cut of his stem was worse than when he’d pulled his petals, and Joven couldn’t stop the screams from tearing from his throat.

His mind flashed back to how he watched his father die. It was just like this, too, with his blood and peach sap spilling over the table he built himself (alongside three-year-old Joven), in agony, at the last few moments of his life.

It was like having your limbs amputated while you were awake. Like someone dug their hand into your body, and started fishing your organs out. It felt like fire, it felt like ice.

It felt like passing through the furnace, and into frozen lakes. It was torture, in the finest, most brutal right.

One by one, his stems came apart, and he could feel his head and vision swimming. Barely in the periphery of his consciousness, he could hear the man’s wife sobbing, and he wanted to apologize to her for scaring her so much. He wanted to say sorry for having them involved in this, at all.

And then—clarity.

His life was teetering on the edge, and he could see a hand, warm and outstretched towards him, from the light in the distance, and he heard a voice he thought he’d never hear again.

“ _Joven, mahal. I’d missed you._ ”

And—dear _lord_. That voice. He’d missed it so much.

He’d been crying, but now, his tears felt like they came back to him like a family—like a _love_ long lost and found again. His tears weren’t of pain.

They were of _relief_.

“ _Just a little longer, I’m so sorry. Soon. I promise. Your pain will end._ ”

The last stem was severed, and Joven hardly felt a thing as his world swam into the light, where he could feel warm arms embracing him again, and he could hear the voices of his old friends, and, _yes_ —

“ _Welcome back home, Joven._ ”

He was home, again.

* * *

His rose had been blue, when it was cut out.

But as the last remnants of his life faded away, a miracle happened.

Proud of obtaining such a rare colour, the captain raised the flower.

And in the soldier’s hand, the blue turned into the faintest pink.

The pink of love, and peace, and happiness, and innocence.

And all was alright again, for poor Joven’s soul.


	10. ASTERACEAE - Helianthus, the Sunflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (adoration, loyalty and longevity)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to [this post](http://teaforchutney.tumblr.com/post/133202193352/balang-araw-mararanasan-mo-din-ang-ganitong).
> 
>  
> 
> hello bebelabs [@teaforchutney](http://tmblr.co/mEkQZWGvTcyuo96VEUY0clA). andito ako para wasakin ang post mo patawad po kapatid sana’y patawarin mo ako sa magiging kasalanan ko sa iyo at sa fandom. tagging [@bangskeletariat](http://tmblr.co/mAqrp7_AdUDxAjEdwoijgwA) and [@crejapasta](http://tmblr.co/mk2Iq1JjCPp673ZVhTv84OQ), ang chuwariwaps ko sa twotter na laging full support (labyu mga beh) at sasapakin ko ang sarili ko kasi may girlaloo si manuel p a t a w a d (#sarimanukk na dis)
> 
>  
> 
> **warnings for mahabang “ficlet” (1240 wordcount w e w), medyo unrequited na requited na gresca, SELF HARM, and lots of pain. probably. maghanda na ng advil. o ng anumang pain reliever. [john lloyd voice] ingat! (click)**

Gregorio del Pilar was a strong man, people said. He was strong. Capable. Smart. Unflappable.

And yet—seeing Rusca’s defeated face across the bars in a ratty, pungent cell in the bottommost pits of what beautiful Cabanatuan had to offer, he had the urge to let people know he wasn’t all that.

He never was.

“Rusca.” He breathed. It’d been so long since he saw him last. Back then, his rose was so yellow, bright and beautiful, and so, so _happy_ , and now—

It was starting to turn blue at the edges, bleeding into yellow like a sickness spreading like wildfire. His yellow was turning green, and, Gregorio thought, so was he, probably, especially when Rusca looked at him—

And all he could see was defeat.

None of the hate, the rage, the _anger_ Gregorio was expecting from him.

Was he not Aguinaldo’s hatchet man? Was he not the man who personally killed both Bernals? Was he not the man who pulled out Manuel’s petals, one by one, in a trance of morbid glee? Was he not the man who handed Manuel’s petals, in a beautiful glass vial filled with alcohol, to his pretty young lover?

Was he not someone Rusca could— _should_ —bring himself to hate?

“Goyong.”

Dear God, he sounded so _tired_. How Gregorio’s heart broke for him.

It shattered what little force Gregorio had in his knees, locking them together, keeping him standing, and he fell to the ground, rose shaking and stems tightening around his wrist like a vice. His thorns dug into his skin, making him bleed, and he knew it was _nothing_ , nothing compared to Manuel’s pain, to _Rusca’s_ pain—

“Are you happy now?” Rusca rasped, slowly shuffling over to where Gregorio knelt at the bars, slowly curling his hands around the rusting metal to peer at him with sunken eyes. “The General is dead. Paco is dead. The Bernals are dead.” he laughed, and it was hollow, nothing like the way he used to laugh, and oh, what Gregorio would give to bring that laugh back to him. “I wouldn’t be surprised if somehow General Alejandrino is dead, too.” He sighed, and pressed his forehead to the space between the bars, to look right in to Gregorio’s eyes. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if you gave Manuel’s petals to Luisa yourself.”

Gregorio shook. Shame and guilt and _something else_ curled in his gut, and he wanted to throw up. He wanted to scream, and cry, and beg for Rusca’s forgiveness, but all he could manage was—

“I was only doing my job.”

He sounded pathetic. Rusca, with the way he looked at him, may had thought the same.

“Yeah?” he murmured, and leant forward. Gregorio, selfish, disgusting little Gregorio, couldn’t pull away. “ _So were they_.”

There was none of the love they used to have in Rusca’s voice, and yet—there was also no hate. Only defeat. Bitter, monotonous defeat.

“Do you hate me?” he asked, quietly, unable to answer Rusca’s words, and the solider stopped for a moment, before sighing.

“I can’t.” he replied, just as softly, and hope fluttered in Gregorio’s heart. “I can’t bring myself to hate you.”

“Rusca, I—”

“But I can’t bring myself to forgive you,” he continued, and his tone rose sharply, a fracture not unlike shattering glass to a crescendo of rage. “Nor can I bring myself to love you. Not like the way I used to.”

 _He loved me,_ Gregorio thought. _Dear God, he **loved** me._

“I…” Gregorio’s tongue was tied in knots. “… I am, still, sorry.”

Rusca’s smile at him was far from warm, and friendly. “Do you think that will fix any of this?”

“No.” Gregorio replied, and he could feel Rusca’s defeat seeping into his head. “… I just came here to tell you, Rusca, that I’m heading to Tirad Pass tomorrow. To protect the President as he retreats.”

“Well, I hope you die.”

The nonchalance was painful, and Gregorio suddenly knew.

 _Matinding pasakit._ Dear God, what could be worse than this?

“But,” Rusca laughed sordidly, “I want to kiss you goodbye. I want to beg you to stay.”

Gregorio gaped at him, and Rusca, he realised, was crying.

“I want to say I forgive you. I want to cry, and tell you I don’t mean anything I say.” He hiccupped, and Gregorio didn’t know what to do. His mind was a mess, but Rusca was an even bigger one. “I want to love you again.”

“You can, please, I beg you,” Gregorio replied, and Rusca’s rose, if by just a little bit, looked yellower. “When we meet again.”

And he could breathe a sigh of relief.

“I’m being shipped off, tomorrow, at dawn, Goyong, for Cebu.” Rusca murmured. “I will be far, far away from you.”

“Then I swear to you, Rusca.” He sounded desperate, and he probably was. “I’ll come back from Tirad, safe, and I’ll find you. We’ll run away together, wherever you’ll be, I’ll find you.”

Rusca’s smile was more sincere now.

“Somehow, I don’t believe that’ll come true,” he whispered. “But I’d like it to.”

Gregorio bit his lip, and Rusca pulled back from him. “Fine. A promise, you’ll swear to keep, right?” he grasped one of his yellow petals, and Gregorio’s gut sank in horror.

“Rusca, no—”

“Then—” Rusca’s tone sharpened, and quickly, much to Gregorio’s horror, he plucked out a yellow petal. Blood and sap oozed out from the flower’s receptacle, and past grit teeth, Rusca grinned at him, and handed him the petal, hands shaking. “Take this. Piece of me.” he struggled to say. His grin was broken, as Gregorio shakily took it from him. “Oh, don’t be so shocked. You’ve seen petals loose before.”

“Rusca, _listen to yourself_.” Gregorio hissed, and Rusca laughed, slightly unhinged, but mostly himself, and that just made him hurt all the more. “I can’t—my rose—”

“I know. It’s against military regulation for a soldier to pull his own petals.” Rusca cut him off. “But I’m not a soldier anymore, Goyong. I’m fine. I know you can’t, and I’m fine with that too.”

Better to die with a rose intact, went by unsaid, and Gregorio sighed, and balled his fist around Rusca’s rose.

“I’ll treasure your heart, I swear on it.”

“Hm.” Rusca hummed. “I love you, you son of a bitch.”

There were many moments when life was full of contradictions, and Gregorio realised that hearts held the record for having the most of them. Hearing that made his heart break and come back together and shatter, over and over again, like a broken record, and—he loved it.

“It’s a strange way of saying that I know I’m supposed to love you,” Rusca clarified.

“I see the sentiment.”

Rusca nodded slowly, nursing his wound, when Gregorio spoke again.

“On my side, I love you with all my heart, Eduardo Rusca.” He declared. “And I swear I will make it back to you.”

Rusca merely nodded, and slowly Gregorio stood, readying himself to walk away.

“Goodbye.” The general ventured, and Rusca peered at him.

“Until I see you again.”

That was a promise. It made Gregorio smile, and he walked away from the cell, hope still in his heart, albeit small, like the first sparks of a fire.

But then Rusca broke his end of the promise, with that accident.

And soon, Gregorio broke his end, with that bullet to the neck.


	11. ORCHIDACEAE - Orchis, the Orchid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (refinement, maturity and beauty)
> 
> The Life and Times of Manuel Bernal, Soldier, Lover, Brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WILL ANYONE BELIEVE ME IF I SAID I CRIED WRITING THIS  
> I HATE THIS FIC HUHUHU  
> @androidisme, beb, you asked for this. 8)))) Medyo iniba ko lang, para mabawasan yung sakit. Jose doesn’t see a thing. Andito nanaman ako para wasakin ang fandom, apparently. hello gais i’m here to ruin everything. Written for #day6!!!!!!!!!!!! of the DVD countdown!
> 
> **warnings for lots and lots of pain. and blood. and more pain. nothing is happy. goyong gets punched and slapped. you’re welcome.**

If one were to ask Manuel Bernal what kind of life would he choose had it not for the war—

He would tell them that, well. He wouldn’t know.

Growing up with his little brother depending heavily on him, Manuel had learned to drive his life in the direction of the flow it took him. He never busied himself with could-haves and would-haves. He bothered himself with the now, with the will-be with what was then, and what may be. Where José busied himself with the simpler, happier things in life, Manuel focused on the more fundamental things. If José was the ornaments, then Manuel was the cornerstone of things.

Life presented him with three wars: first, one against the Spaniards (lost, the nation and his father, hid away his family all by himself), next, against the Americans (again, lost, again, the nation, his brother, and his life), and his last, against the Filipinos.

He never found the resolution to that war.

(Until now, even. There is still no answer to the age-old question: how will the silent civil war of Filipino against Filipino ever end?)

As a soldier, Manuel was a model officer. Well-kept, quiet, obedient, loyal. Smart, crafty—Luna had entrusted him with the defences of the camp, while he had Col. Roman at his side for offence, and Manuel served them well. In the heat of war, Manuel was collected, calm even as earth flew over his head, even as he shoved José into the nearest hiding spot, yelling into his ear to get out of the crossfire and ask for the General’s help.

The General called him a strong man. Strong, not in just body, but in mind, and will.

Sitting with one leg crossed over the other, Gregorio del Pilar inspected the brilliant pink Manuel’s rose petal retained, even after he had plucked it out. The soldier in question lay on the ground, bleeding, bruised and beaten within an inch of his life, but his hand had been secured on the armrest of del Pliar’s armchair.

“It’s beautiful.” He remarked offhandedly, inspecting the petal from its root to tip. “A bright, lovely pink, fading to white.” He looked down at Manuel, who was panting on the ground, choking up blood and spit as he heaved in pain. “Your first and last colour, was it?”

Manuel said nothing. He hadn’t, since the torture began, and del Pilar couldn’t help but commend the man for his strength.

“I’ve heard from before that that was the sign of a strong man.” He continued, watching as transparent pink sap oozed out of the wound left on the receptacle, stained red with Manuel’s blood. “So many people must have relied on you.”

He tossed aside the petal, and reached for another one. He didn’t pay much attention which whorl he grabbed hold of, and pulled out three in succession. Manuel’s hand twitched, his fingers seizing up and contorting, clenching and stiffening all at the same time in pain. He bit his lip, _hard_ , and fought the urge to scream.

“For example.” Del Pilar said, plucking out another petal, and tossing it to the ground. “Your troops.” Another petal fluttered to the floor. “Your… comrades.”

One, two, three. The General. Paco. Rusca.

The pain was white-hot, and his vision swam. This was incontestably the worst of the lot. The wounds and bruises he had on his body were _nothing_ compared to this torture—his heart, _literally_ torn apart, and yet—

Manuel determinedly did not scream.

He _never_ will, if it was for del Pilar’s satisfaction.

“Oh, that’s right. How’s Luisa?” the general asked, like they were talking about the weather, and Manuel’s hand balled into a fist.

Del Pilar pulled out another petal, and had it rest on the top of his palm. “The two of you had quite a cute story, didn’t you?” he asked, toying with the petal with his other hand.

That, they did.

If you were to ask Manuel to describe his lover in one sentence, he would tell you Luisa was a woman ahead of her time. She was bright, like her yellow rose, and while she didn’t have the chance to learn to read or write, she was so terribly poetic.

When Manuel told Joven he had a good influence, it was more of _her_ than the General.

She learned how to compose stories and poetry simply by _listening_ , and she was so very good at it. Listening. But that wasn’t all that what made her ahead of her time, no.

It was the fact that she had been the one to court Manuel first. She’d talked to him with sweet words Manuel only heard from written lovers, and he’d replied, first out sheer surprise and amusement, with equal sweet fervour.

And then they spent more time together. She was an aide at General Luna’s camp—unqualified for the _Cruz Roja_ due to the fact she was formally uneducated, but that was alright. She was smart in her own way. She eventually became a personal aide of sorts to him, and had sometimes taken a gun in her hand to protect him, and for that he’d been eternally grateful.

Their first kiss was shared in the heat of battle, in a _nipa_ hut, while cannons exploded outside. Adrenaline was thrumming in their veins, fresh from a perfectly-executed but risky plan, and it was the only way they saw to burn off the excitement. At least, without taking their clothes off.

Ever since then, Manuel had been nothing but a gentleman to her, but after the whole fiasco with Mascardo, he sent her off to live in Cabanatuan to stay safe.

He reasoned it was because that was where the President was staying.

She would be safe there.

“I’d heard about your story from one of my men,” del Pilar chuckled, blowing at Manuel’s petal to have it flutter to the dirt-and-blood-smeared stone ground. “Very cute. So she lives in Cabanatuan now, does she—”

“If you touch her, I will kill you myself.”

Del Pilar paused, but his lips slowly curled into a Cheshire cat smile.

“And at last, you talk.” He purred. “Well. That took a lot.” He uncrossed his legs to change them, and he poked Manuel’s head with his foot. “How touching. You really loved her, didn’t you?” he asked, but received no response. “Well. I’ll make sure she’ll have a part of you.”

Manuel eyed the petals on the ground, and closed his eyes, sighing, his lungs stinging with the effort and his ribs creaked, jagged, broken bones digging into his flesh like shrapnel.

Oh, that’s right. He was going to die here.

He… made a promise.

“Tell her…” he struggled to speak, and del Pilar raised an eyebrow at him. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I made her a… promise.” He heaved, and his body shook. “It looks like… I won’t…”

Del Pilar hushed him there, oddly gently, despite everything, and nodded, even if Manuel wasn’t looking at him.

“I understand.” He murmured softly. “She’ll know, I promise.”

At that Manuel raised his head to glower at del Pilar, who was, oddly, smiling at him gently.

“I am, first and foremost, Manuel, a lover.” He told him. “I understand how much you love her. I won’t let her last memory of you be you abandoning her.”

It was oddly sweet. Yet it wasn’t enough for him to be forgiven, but he was grateful for the sentiment.

“Well.” Del Pilar huffed, sitting back in his armchair. “I’m going to need more petals,” he declared, “About five,” and he plucked out five, tearing aborted half-cries from Manuel, his constitution slowly wearing down to thinness with how long this torture was taking. “For dear Luisa,” he paused, pretending to think, and hummed, “Oh, and another five, for your dear José.”

It was like a spark was lit in Manuel. A tiny fire, enough to set aflame the smallest amount of gunpowder, enough to cause an _explosion_.

The effect was near instantaneous. Manuel’s free hand shot up—and his fist collided with del Pilar’s jaw.

It tore a yell of surprise from del Pilar, and that called the soldiers standing guard outside to rush inside to hold the struggling Manuel down to the ground, straining his arm still attached to del Pilar’s armchair.

“Sir, are you alright?” one of them asked, as del Pilar shook his head, nursing the bruise forming on his jaw, smeared with Manuel’s blood.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“ _Don’t you dare_.” Manuel hissed, like he wasn’t dying, or bleeding to death. “ _Don’t you **dare**_.”

Del Pilar glowered at him.

Manuel couldn’t bear the thought of losing José. He couldn’t lose him. He just _couldn’t._

Because if he did, that would mean—

It would mean—

His worst fear realised:

Failing as José’s older brother.

He promised their parents he’d protect him, damn it, ever since they entered the army. Manuel had assigned himself to managing the camp’s defences, mostly to keep José safe. He tried so hard to become the best soldier he could be, so that José wouldn’t have to. He gave up so much—a chance to stay with Luisa, his freedom so José could run free, his _life_ to hide where José ran—

He _can’t_ afford to lose him.

Dear _God_ , not like this.

“Well, well.” Del Pilar laughed, “You’ve still got some fighting spirit in you, Manuel. I’m proud of you.”

He got up, pulling his gloves back on, and his expression was dark, shadowed by his hat.

“I think it’s time for you to say goodbye.”

He pulled out a switchblade, and turned to Manuel’s rose, and the man’s eyes widened.

“You’re _barbaric_.”

“I prefer the term _thorough_.”

He began cutting off Manuel’s stems one by one, and there it was—his agonized screams. About time.

He left one intact, the main peduncle, and turned back to glower at Manuel.

“Goodbye.” He raised his gun at Manuel’s head, and removed the safety.

“I swear on my blood you’ll go through this kind of ordeal, Goyong,” Manuel heaved, and del Pilar shrugged.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

A single bullet was all it took to silence his life.

* * *

He’d pulled out a total of twenty-two petals. He cleaned them up, and took five of them, as promised.

He put them in a smallish bottle, filled with alcohol, and headed to Cabanatuan. After asking around for directions, he finally found the house Luisa had been staying in.

Fixing himself up properly, Gregorio stood at the door, and gave it three clean knocks.

The door opened to reveal a tired-looking young woman, her hair down in slightly messy waves, and still slightly damp. She’d been taking a bath, Gregorio thought to himself, and he plastered a charming smile on his lips.

She was very easy on the eyes. Nice, wide hips, supple chest. Manuel was lucky to have her.

“Oh, General.” She blinked, tucking her hair behind her ear, and he saw her rose—it was a lovely yellow colour, much like Rusca’s, and his heart ached slightly.

Rusca was in jail. He had yet to visit him.

But. There were more important things right now.

“Luisa Bagon?” he asked, and she nodded, looking confused.

“I’m sorry, is there a problem?” she asked, and he shook his head.

“May I come in?” he asked, and she nodded, still confused, but stepped aside to let Gregorio in. He came in to see two sets of plates at the table. “Breakfast for two?” he asked conversationally, and Luisa jolted.

“Oh—no. Sorry, force… of habit.” She looked so _sad_ , leaning against the wall like that. “It’s just that… someone used to live here with me, and…”

“A lover, perhaps?” he ventured, and she jolted again.

“Ah, no, General. A young man someone asked me to take care of.” She replied, “A journalist. He… left, a few days back.”

Hm. There were no reports about a journalist. Gregorio would have to look later.

“So, there’s no one else here but you, _binibini_?”

“None, sir.” She shook her head, and he grinned.

“Well, isn’t that brilliant.”

Before she could ask him what he meant, he pinned her to the wall, arm pressed to the creaky wood above her head, another pressed to the wall beside it. Her eyes widened, and he grinned down at her as he sandwiched her body with his own, and the wall.

“G-General, what—”

“Do you miss him?” he asked her, leaning forward to nose at her hair, and he could feel her heartbeat racing against his chest. “Manuel Bernal. It seems you haven’t seen him for a while.”

Her eyes widened. “Manuel’s…”

“Your lover, yes?” he kissed her temple, before moving down to nose at her cheek. “I’ve come to deliver a message from him.”

Luisa’s eyes sharpened, and she glowered at him.

“You’re—”

“He says that he is sorry he can’t come back to you.” Gregorio continued, “And I’m afraid he never will.”

Luisa jolted in a full-bodied gasp, and Gregorio swooped in to kiss her. She struggled against him, and when he pulled away, he grinned.

“So. Are you in need of a stopgap, _binibini_?”

“You _bastard_.” She hissed, slapping him, _hard_ , ironically, right on top of where Manuel had punched him. Gregorio stumbled away from her, laughing as he nursed his swelling cheek, and Luisa hurried to the kitchenette to pick up a pan. “You… _bastard_.”

“My, when he said you had spunk,” and, really, he didn’t, but Gregorio could _tell_. He knew Manuel’s type, and she fit it _so well_. “You have _spunk_. That’s very admirable of a woman like you.”

“There’s more where that came from.” She spat.

“That, my dear _binibini_ , I have no doubt.” He shook his head fondly. “However, I respect your consent. I’ll leave something for you, though. That was the true intention of this visit.”

Luisa laughed, hollow and snide. “Oh, so you came here hoping for a quick fuck, too, did you?”

“Vulgar.” Gregorio laughed. “You’re actually rather charming.”

“I _am_ a soldier’s wife.”

“Oh, not yet, you aren’t.” Gregorio corrected her, and she deflated at that.

She and Manuel never had the chance to get married, after all.

“But, I digress. Here is something he wanted you to have.” He pulled out the bottle from his satchel, and showed it to her, feeling no small amount of guilt welling up inside him as her eyes filled with grief and despair. “The last remaining pieces of him, preserved, for lifetimes to come.”

Luisa took the bottle, hands shaking, and Gregorio took one to kiss on the knuckles apologetically.

“Manuel loved you to the bitter end,” he said, “I want you to know at least that much. Don’t forget him, Luisa. Don’t stop loving him, the way he loved you.”

“… I will,” she shakily replied, and while he never liked watching a lady cry, moreso crying _alone_ , he had a job to do, and a fugitive to catch.

“I must go now, _binibini_.” He told her softly, and she didn’t even look at him leave.

“If this doesn’t war kill you first,” she said, her voice wrecked and broken, making him stop at the door, “Then _I_ will.”

“… I’ll look forward to it.” He said, an ironic echo to her lover, and he shut the door behind him as he left.

* * *

José was running for his life. He’d escaped capture by del Pilar and his men, but he wasn’t out of the fire yet. He _had_ to get somewhere safe. He _had_ to meet up with Manuel. He _had_ to _stay alive_.

He ducked into an alleyway, and he could hear the shouting of soldiers. He felt like a cornered animal like this, wild and frightened and _dying_ of fear, running away from predators out for his blood, for his rose.

José ran without looking. He was desperate, frightened—

And he skidded to a halt, when he turned into an alleyway, where scattered along the dirt road, were _petals_.

Not just _any_ kind of petal. They were _rose_ petals. And they were bright _pink_.

“Oh, dear God.” He breathed, collapsing to his knees at the edge of the scattered petals.

Alone, they looked beautiful. Pink petals scattered over the brown earth like a wedding had just finished.

(José sometimes wondered what Manuel and Luisa’s wedding would look like. No doubt it would be pink and yellow, and they would be so happy, and he’d be best man, like Manuel promised him when they were younger. Times were simpler back then.)

They looked so innocuous like that, like they were just… _there_ for a celebration, not a harbinger of despair and woe. But dear _God_ , they were… a _warning_.

“There you are.” Del Pilar’s voice purred behind him, and José’s eyes widened, tears spilling from his eyes unheeded.

“… Goyong.”

The click of a gun’s safety going off sealed José’s fate.

The petals were a _trap_.

“Until the end, you know, Manuel always thought of you.” Del Pilar continued to say, and José’s blood boiled at how his brother’s name rolled off the man’s glib tongue. “He sprung to life when I mentioned you. Managed to plant a punch. Right here.”

He felt Gregorio’s thumb brush his jaw, soft like a lover’s touch, like the way Manuel cupped Luisa’s cheek, or the way he smiled at José when he let his fears take him, freeze him in place in the front lines.

It made his stomach turn.

“I killed him, you know. Pulled his petals, one by one.” Del Pilar’s gun was pressed to José’s temple and he drew a shaky breath. “Those petals, they’re—”

“They’re his. I’d know them from anywhere.”

He heard del Pilar’s smile in the way his voice curled around his words.

“Very good. You really _are_ a Bernal, José.”

He wasn’t going to die a scared animal. He was _not_.

“Well. We are a proud bloodline. We are noble men. Honest. Upright.”

“Hm.”

“While you, Goyong, are a snake, and a hatchet man.”

“Haven’t heard that one before.” The sarcasm was palpable, but José pushed on.

“If this war doesn’t kill you, Goyong—”

“Then _you_ will? José, don’t be childish, don’t think that I’ll—”

“Then fate will make it so that you will live long, and you will _suffer_.”

He heard the creak of leather. Del Pilar’s hand tightened on the handle of his gun.

“At least allow me one last request, Goyong.”

“What.”

“Tell _Ate_ Luisa that I’m sorry, too.” He said, “And that I’ll be seeing my _Kuya_ soon, so tell her not to worry about him being lonely.”

José suddenly turned to smile peacefully at del Pilar, who jolted in shock at the unexpected action.

“So, Goyong? Aren’t you going to kill me yet? Or are you going to wait until I stop smiling?” his gaze was sharp, but his smile was still there. “Because, just to spite you, _you son of a bitch_ , I will _never_ stop smiling.”

Del Pilar’s hands shook, and he pulled the trigger.


	12. ZINGIBERACEAE - Zingiber, the Ginger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (passion, strength, resilience)
> 
> Lifetimes of Christmases, in the Eyes of Four War Widows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warnings for lots and lots of pain. there is also kilig. and lunasonas. and more pain. but also gay. as in femslash. s/o to mareng@dettsu gahdbless sorry ang labnaw ng g a y nila jules at issa (whoops). to those interested may “full” version yung isang scene diyan. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) you’ll know what i mean when you see it. message me if you’re interested. blame twitter folks**
> 
> sorry i just really wanted to write women and i realised im actually really bad at it
> 
> Consolacion V. belongs to tumblr user dakilanglumpia. Luisa B. belongs to me.
> 
> [Tumblr version here](http://bukkun-moonsin.tumblr.com/post/136180906698/zingiberaceae).

## (Juliana Piqueras) 01—

Spending time with Paco always was a rarity, these days. When the country was at war, families became second priority, and soldiers’ wives become mistresses to the beautiful _Nación_ they all fought for.

Still, she was alright with that. Paco, after all, loved first and foremost, the nation. Second place isn’t too terrible, especially to such a beautiful concept.

Yet, come Christmas, wars cease for the world for too-few precious hours, and Paco made the most of it. He returned to her embrace for the night before Christmas, smiles warm, and yet never quite reaching his eyes, and she thought, oh. The war. What terrible things it does to men.

(She doesn’t know. Of the lips that touched his, of the white rose that brushed his peach.)

(She will never know that was why Paco could never smile at her properly again.)

He returned to their _hacienda_ in Cagayan, barely showing any signs of fatigue the moment he laid eyes on her, and his peach rose had never been as bright since the war started.

“ _Mahal_ ,” he breathed (and it tasted like poison on his tongue, like well-loved family recipes overgrown to a tailored distaste from overuse), and he kissed her, sweet and soft as always. He cupped her face in his hands, bunching up her hair, flowing down and smelling of flowers, and _oh_ , how he’d missed home. How she’d missed him, how—“I’ve missed you.”

She smiled, pressing her hands over his, and sighed. “I’ve missed you too.” She said, and he kissed her again. When they parted, twin sighs of fondness and relief clouding in the cold night air between them, she spoke again. “Until how long—”

“The eve of the 25th.”

“Ah, enough time as always.”

And they both laughed. How they’d missed this banter.

“Come on in, then. We’ve dinner to prepare and—” Juliana faked a gasp, cupping her husband’s face in her hands, “Oh, you’ve gotten thinner! That is _not_ allowed!”

Paco laughed, full and warm, and he picked her up by the waist to spin her around, relishing the sound of her delighted squeal of laughter, and he kissed her again. “Who says I’ve gotten thinner?” he grinned, raising an eyebrow at her, and she gave him a light smack on the arm, chuckling to herself.

“Your cheeks.” She replied, “It’s Christmas, _mahal_ , I am going to fatten you up!”

And they were happy. They were _supposed_ to be happy.

It’d been months since she’d seen Paco. They’d been sent to head to Cabanatuan, and in his letter, he’d sounded so excited. She couldn’t wait to hear from him again.

Sitting alone in her parlour, she carefully embroidered a silk handkerchief with golden thread, absently humming a song she and Paco danced to slowly together that Christmas night she saw him last. She’d taken in a new aide by then, a young woman named Luisa, with a rose yellow like her husband’s friend Rusca, and she was rather good with her words. Like Paco was, really. The children would take to her well.

She smiled as she watched Luisa chase her children around outside, their laughter accompanied by her half-hearted yelling, dissolving into giggles, and she missed Paco so terribly dearly.

He should come home again, soon, she thought. The children would miss him, and no doubt Luisa would learn a lot from him when it came to poetry, she thought warmly, turning back to her embroidery.

(The General, after all, had always been such a good influence on him.)

“Mama!” her children called happily, and she looked up to see Luisa herding them into the house, looking a little dishevelled, but none worse for wear. She put down her embroidery to give them both a hug, and her aide walked up to her with a tired smile.

“I’ve to leave for the _hacienda_ now, _Ñora_.” She said, “Do you have anything I need to do?”

“No, it’s alright,” she shook her head, “You may go now.”

Luisa answered her with a nod, and headed outside to leave. She let her children rush upstairs to their own devices, and as the afternoon sun crossed the sky, she heard a knock on her door as she prepared her family’s dinner.

“Luisa?” she asked, opening the door—only to see a man in uniform, and she felt tears prickling her eyes again.

Oh, this young General reminded her of the war. Of what was keeping her Paco away from her.

Still, she pulled in her tears, and forced a steadiness to her voice.

“General.” She tried not to waver, and his smile was coy, like a fox’s, inspecting his prey.

She would not falter.

Yet—two moons later, with her heart in pieces and del Pilar’s lips against her neck, she wondered to herself what that gun on the floor would feel like against her forehead, and what kind of pain did Paco go through before he died.

Did his rose change, she wondered?

Did he die thinking of her, just as she will, that night, thinking of him?

(He didn’t, just as she didn’t die that night, thanks to a parasol to del Pilar’s head by a livid Luisa.)

She spent her first few days as a widow learning to love again through the haze of sin, in the company of her children and lov— _aide_ , and perhaps, she thought, she could learn to stand again.

Yet as she tasted Issa— _Luisa_ ’s tears on her lips and her quivering heat around her fingers—

She knew it was wrong. Paco would never forgive her for betraying him like this.

(Her rose used to be so bright red.)

She thought she would be alright. She had her children. She had Luisa.

But then Luisa was gone, too. Hurried off after del Pilar, swearing to avenge José Bernal, and, according to a bloodstained letter sent to her, she’d died too.

She spent her Christmas mourning, her two children by her side, and come the dawn of that day—

Her rose was the deepest red.

(Her rose used to be so bright red.)

## (Luisa Bagon) 02—

He’d been given two days off from camp, and he would spend them in Cabanatuan. The Americans no doubt also took a Christmas break, and while the General would have wanted to take advantage of that opportunity, they were fighting a formal war, and they were nothing but formal soldiers.

And so there was a ceasefire, and the men were allowed two days’ rest.

Manuel spent the first hours of his rest riding hard towards Cabanatuan.

There hadn’t been time to send a telegram. There hadn’t been time to let her know.

That would be time wasted, and he’d missed her.

He knocked on her door, and she’d hadn’t the time to speak as she opened the door. He’d kissed her the moment she did.

And it was enough, they both thought. It’d been so long.

It was the early evening, when he’d arrived. They had the whole night to each other.

She stole his uniform when she woke up ahead of him before the light of dawn, giggling lightly when it didn’t fit her properly. It was big for her, hanging past her hips like a short dress and the sleeves going further than her fingertips, but it smelled like _him_ and she wasn’t about to let him go for a while.

This day was theirs, for the time being.

She busied herself with preparing for breakfast. There would be time for Mass later, and then Noche Buena, and then maybe they could—

“I was wondering where that went.” His voice was rough with sleep, yet warm with amusement, and she laughed brightly when he kissed her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her waist, their roses brushing in warm, intimate greetings of hello. Pink against yellow, happiness and friendship, pressed together in a whisper of “ _I missed you, I’m sorry, I love you_ ”.

“Good morning,” she greeted him, and oh, how it’d be nice to wake up like this every morning after the war. He held her throughout making breakfast, like how he held her last night, and the day went by too fast.

“When this war ends,” he murmured into her skin, as they lay together in a hammock in a tree behind her little house, “I’m going to come back here, and I’ll have a ring ready for you.”

Luisa looked at him, eyes wide, and he laughed, breathing in the scent of her hair as she squirmed in the little hammock to hug him tightly in joy. He hugged her back, sighing.

“Imagine. We’ll be at the chapel, and we’d have everyone from the camp there—”

“And pink and yellow roses—”

“José will be our best man—”

“Conching, the maid of honour.”

Manuel lost the banter with a barking laugh. “She’d hate it. The pink and the flowers and everything. We’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Oh, she’ll be glad, don’t deny it,” Luisa chuckled, giving him a light smack on his arm. “José, too. Maybe this time, you’ll have a happier family life.”

“Not maybe, Issa.” Manuel replied, hugging her close. “I _definitely_ will.”

Oh, what she’d give to have those days back.

The next thing she knew she was holding a bottle of Manuel’s pink (oh, dear _God_ they were— _are_ —so _pink_ ) petals, shaking and sobbing on the floor of her house, vowing to kill del Pilar the next time she sees him.

She ran away from Cabanatuan after that. Sought refuge elsewhere, at the home of a Juliana Román, hoping she’d escape all this pain—

And then, there he was again, smirking at her.

 _Gregorio del Pilar_.

The man who killed her Manuel.

He’d tried taking her mistress as well, but she’d chased him away, at the price of her learning what happened to her husband.

She stayed to fix the aftermath—

But got more than what she bargained for.

( _“Nnh, S-Senyora—” the surprise was there, and her moan was torn from her throat._

_It’d been so long._

_“There.”_ )

Her skin still tingled at the memory of the nights they held each other. Stopgaps for holes they’d never been able to fix, they were. Two lonely, battered war-widows, mourning the loss of their loves by finding a new one in the ashes and embers left behind by the fire that burned them alive.

It took her too long to find that letter del Pilar left on her bed.

_… This is to certify that **José Bernal** …_

_… years of age, **died** …_

_… **gunshot wounds** to his sternum and head._

Her hands shook, and her petals curled into themselves, and her world fell apart once more.

Manuel had been caught trying to lead them away from José. His death had been for naught.

She grabbed her master’s gun off the wall, and stole one of his horses. _Bituwin_ , her name was. Bright and powerful, like the light from her namesake.

Luisa was no soldier, but Manuel taught her how to shoot—how to _kill_ , if necessary.

She had a general to track down.

That night, she held Juliana closer than she ever did before, kissing her longer and harder as silent apologies, as a way of saying goodbye, and in the soft light of the early morning sun, Luisa drew her arms and rode to Tirad as fast as she could.

She caught up with del Pilar just a town away from the Pass, and her first greeting to him was a fist to his jaw with a kiss mark on it, and he answered her anger with fire in a kiss that had his door slamming shut.

She’d emerged with a cut lip and a bleeding pride.

He’d emerged with a black eye, a bloody nose, and a brimming pride.

“Luisa,” he softly said, pulling his uniform from the windowsill to drape it over her shoulders. “I was only doing my job.”

“I’ve lost too much, General.” Her voice was cold, and her rose used to be so yellow.

(It reminded Gregorio of Rusca, when he was rotting alone in Cabanatuan, and he remembers it being the same shade as it is now.)

It was turning blue, green bleeding into yellow.

“Luisa, please. Manuel was a dear fr—”

“ _Don’t_ say his name.” she hissed.

“Do I not deserve to say it?”

He gently brushed her hair aside to see her crying, and he thumbed her tears away. “Luisa.”

“You don’t.” She shakily said, “You don’t, just as much as _I_ don’t.”

At that, Gregorio paused. “You… don’t?”

She offered him no explanation, and sobbed into his arms that evening.

(And then the Americans caught up, and Gregorio cursed this wretched life.)

She died in his arms the next day.

## (Isabel) 03—

_(Crossed out in a hurry, Tunying) Antonio,_

_Merry Christmas. I know it’s rather awkward for me to ask you to read this while we’re right here in the same room face-to-face, but I just can’t tell you myself. I’m afraid my voice will give out and you will laugh at me for even trying._

_You’ve been courting me for the past few months, and it’s been absolutely wonderful. I just want to tell you something._

_Yes._

_You have my whole heart, Antonio. Yes, I accept your feelings._

_I doubt you’ll even read the latter half of this letter, but I want you to know that my parents are a little less than pleased, but I could care less. I love you too, Antonio. I want to marry you, come the time._

_Yours always,_

_Isabel_

(He’d kissed her senseless, after reading that tiny word of three little letters, behind the curtains of her father’s _piging_ , giggling breathlessly against each other’s lips as they hid away from the prying eyes of the world. Later, when they’d calmed down, and their hands and fingers intertwined, did he read the latter half, and laughed at her ever-so-sure prediction of him.

“You know me so well,” he chuckled, kissing her hair, fragrant with flowers, and she giggled.

“I have to,” she said, “I’ll be your wife.”

“Come that day,” Antonio replied, “I’ll be your husband. I’ve to know you even better by then.”

Isabel simply smiled, and held on to his arm for the rest of the evening.)

* * *

_Tunying,_

_Merry Christmas! I’ve rarely ever sent you letters this way, but I’ve missed you, and I know Spain is so far away—enough perhaps for my parents to not notice. How is Madrid? I’ve heard it’s a beautiful place to be in Europe. Have you ever seen snow there? Or anywhere, in your travels? I’ve heard it’s absolutely beautiful. Do write back soon to me. It’s been so long since you’ve come home to the Philippines._

_Here, it’s all the same. Noche Buena is still as bright as ever, and the belen reminds me of the Christmases we’ve yet to have together. It fills me with warmth, thinking about it. I pray nightly at Simbang Gabi for your safe and speedy return._

_Do say hello to Juan and Pepe and the others for me. Again, Merry Christmas, my love._

_Ever yours,_

_Sabel_

(Antonio replied with a letter, much longer than hers, written more in verse than in prose. It smelled of roses, like the bright red one on her wrist. It told her of his travels in Europe, of the shenanigans he and his friends had gotten into, and it all felt like a dream. Like Pepe’s death wasn’t looming just around the corner, like a war was not to happen, like revolution was a scattered dream that was like a far-off memory.

Isabel sometimes wishes those days would come back, as she buried herself in her medical studies as well, to keep up with Antonio, but also to make something useful out of herself. She would be a doctor, like he was, and they would support their family _together_.

Times were much simpler back then.)

* * *

_Antonio,_

_It’s Christmas again, my love, and look how we’ve grown. We’re no longer children, and yet—it was like I was that teenaged girl again, when I saw you in your military uniform, at my father’s dinner. You were so handsome earlier. If we’d been younger, I’d have fallen in love with you all over again._

_I want to see you tonight, in my room. Can you make sure you’re not seen? I’ve yet to give you my proper Christmas present, and I think you’ll like it._

[A kiss mark, in deep red.]

(It was their first night together. It was wonderful.

She couldn’t forget the heat of Antonio’s hands on her body for days.)

* * *

_I love you. Come back safely._

[Unsigned, unsent, marked with tears.]

(It was their last night together. This was his last fight, and they could no longer see each other again. Not like _this_.

When he left, she’d wept, written that short letter in lipstick, and threw the card into her journal drawer in her teakwood vanity, never to be seen again for a long, long time.)

* * *

_Antonio,_

_Merry Christmas. It has been a little more than a year since I saw you last, and I’ve missed you ever since. I spent a year in mourning. I dressed in black, and wept for your brother’s loss. For your mother’s loss. For my loss. I’ve written to you like this every day—a way to cope, one of my nursing students tells me—and there’re countless letters in my vanity drawer that will never again see the light of day. Still, it is therapeutic, and it helps lessen the pain._

_Oh—I was in pain, when I lost you. My rose—do you remember what it looked like? It was a beautiful red, bright red like the colour of blood. Like the colour of the sky in the afternoon, like the rubies you sent me for my birthday. I wore them every day while I mourned._

_My rose is purple now, and I only have you to thank. It took a while for the blue to settle, but I suppose it won’t go any further than this. I’m fairly certain it won’t. It’s a beautiful colour, and I’ve met many a person who’ve told me it’s not unlike Presidente Aguinaldo’s. I suppose that’s a rather great honour, to have the same colour rose as the President himself._

_But, I digress. Teaching has gone on rather swimmingly; while the Americans really did as you warned, I am at least safe. I’ve moved to Manila now to teach, and I’ve had some wonderful students so far. That nursing student who told me about the letters—oh, she’s a bright one. Consolacion was her name, and she reminds me so much of you, it sometimes leaves a dull ache in my chest. She had your colour, you know. The exact same shade. She’s a very… unique girl,_ (here, handwritings smudge a little, shaking with mild laughter) _and rather… tempestuous, like you. Oh, I’ve been told countless times by Juan that if we’d been married, she’d be our daughter. Can you believe it?_

_Consolacion—Conching, as her classmates call her, she’s a strong girl. And for some reason, she’s missing an eye. I never found out why, and when she’d finished a year of studying, she went right back to the man she served. Imagine my surprise, when I found out it was none other than Senyor Mabini himself! I thought he’d gone and left—but, no. He was with his brother, and two trusted aides, and now, his new nurse Conching._

_We’d caught up at a café not too far from Intramuros, and Conching was nothing short of a model caregiver. I believe she’ll be a wonderful doctor, if she pursued it. Mabini was very proud of her, you know. It was like he’d found a daughter in her, and I think he’d lost a little of that blue in his rose. He smiled more often, too. It was rather lovely, just us, two Blues, talking out our pains in life, in that café. It was almost therapeutic, the way we talked about you, and what could have been. Conching was fiery throughout it, and she brought colour into our otherwise blue-tinted conversation._

_Before he left, Mabini apologised to me, about you. It was surprising, to say the least._

_But I know it wasn’t his fault; so I told him nevermind. We both knew who was responsible, anyway, but he’d probably felt like he was somehow responsible._

_Bless Senyor Mabini. May he live a long life. He’d supported you, you know. He told me he’d believed in your words, in your plan—and oh, God, does the regret sting. He left me an embroidered handkerchief as an apology._

_But I’ve grown stronger since then. The Red Cross now has me at its head, and it is nothing short of an honour. A new suitor has made himself known to me, and I don’t know if I should return his feelings. Society would want me to, my rose now would tell me yes, but you—_

_I would wait for you, even in death, but I don’t know if that is what you want._

_I will never know, I suppose, but I will never stop praying._

_I will always love you, Antonio Luna._

_Yours, always,_

[No signature.]

## (Consolacion Valderueda) 04—

The square outside his window by his bed was merry, and the wind was cold against his face. He shivered slightly under the blankets wrapped around him, but there was a soft smile on his face as he watched couples dancing in the street, illuminated by the beauty of lit _parols_ , their candle lights burning bright like multi-coloured stars.

It was beautiful, he thought, watching how his steadily-wilting rose was turning blacker by the day, instead of blue, and he thought, _oh_ —

This was going to be his last Christmas, ever.

There was a knock on his door, and he sighed softly, still smiling.

Well, it’d be a lovely one, at least. Spending time with _her_ was always a charm.

Consolacion was practically his daughter now. She’d stayed with him ever since he, Andong, and Noel left the Palace, and she’d been such a wonderful student-cum-caretaker. She was a strong young woman. Independent, headstrong and always with her compass pointed firmly north. Consolacion never lost her way. He’d sent her to Manila to study for a year, and when she came back she’d brought with her a myriad of awards, and he couldn’t be prouder of her.

And, well, there was one other thing he could relate with her.

“Come in, my dear.” He called at the door, sitting up in his bed, and the one-eyed girl stepped inside, shutting the door behind her quietly with a push of her foot. In her hands was a tray with _bibingka_ and two mugs of coffee on it, and she looked every bit that nervous child about to meet her relatives at a Christmas reunion.

He smiled at her softly.

They were both missing something, and both too many things.

(He doubts she’d had a Christmas like this, either. Well. There was always a first time for anything.)

“Merry Christmas, _Ginoo_.” She said, and Mabini smiled at her, one of those rare, soft ones he gave her when he started getting sentimental, and they had become more often than usual. As the festivities outside went on, her eyes welled with tears at the _warmth_ she felt from him, and he held her hand, giving it a soft squeeze as she put the tray down on the bedside table.

“Merry Christmas, Consolacion.” He murmured back, “And another blessed year ahead to you, my dear girl.” His voice was getting weaker by the day, and she didn’t know if she was strong enough to hear it go completely silent.

She lowered her head, feeling dread curl up her throat, and he patted her head warmly.

“How much longer until the _Noche Buena_?” he asked.

“About fifteen minutes, _Ginoo_.” She replied, looking outside at the clock tower of the church towering over the square. “Your brother is already asleep.”

Mabini barked out a laugh. “Oh, he always misses Noche Buena like that.” He shook his head, and that cracked a smile on Consolacion’s lips. “How about you, little _lumpia_?” he asked, the pet name rolling off his tongue like it was the easiest thing in the world—and it was. Saying it was lighter than air, a far cry from the last time he’d called someone by their nickname.

 _Miong_ still sat heavy like a lead weight on his heart.

“I’ll stay here with you, if you don’t mind.” She said, and he chuckled, nodding.

“Of course I don’t.”

A cold draft wafted in, and he shook his head fondly when he saw Consolacion shiver slightly. “Cold, my dear?”

“N-no, I’m fine. Are you cold, _Ginoo_?”

“I’m fine,” he wasn’t, really, it was still a little cold, “But if you’d like,” he lifted his blankets beside him, and patted the space on the bed next to him. “Sit here with me. It’s a cold Christmas Eve, and wouldn’t you rather spend it warm?”

“May I, really?” she asked, eyes wide, and he nodded, fondness welling up in his heart.

“Of course, you’d have to move my legs, I’m sorry,” he chuckled, and at that, Consolacion huffed a small laugh of amusement.

“Ah, what a chore,” she deadpanned, and it got the two of them laughing, as she gently moved Mabini a little more to the left to squeeze herself in the space next to him. He wrapped the blankets around them as she reached for the two coffees, and together, they sipped their hot drinks in comfortable, companionable silence.

Eventually Consolacion spoke up.

“Did you ever wish for anything on Christmas, _Ginoo_?” she asked.

It was a little out of the blue, and Mabini’s rose jolted a little in surprise. One of the blue petals, precariously hanging on by practically a thread, threatened to pop right off, and Consolacion hurried to cup it in her hand, to hold it still.

“Sorry, did that surprise you?” she asked, and he shook his head.

“Yes, but that’s alright.” He reassured her, “But, about that wish…”

He’d spent that one Christmas in the Palace, surrounded by politicians and coattail-riders, but after the party had dwindled and the orange lights had dimmed, leaving only him and Aguinaldo on that silent, hidden terrace did he appreciate that evening.

With the way Aguinaldo held his hand so _warmly_ , his regalia coat wrapped around Mabini’s shoulders to keep him warm, it was like a dream come true. They’d talked idly for a while, letting the time pass by idly, for once, not worrying about a _war_ or running a nation, and Aguinaldo could afford becoming a normal man once again.

They’d kissed, come the first hour of Christmas Day, and Mabini had made his first Christmas wish ever.

“Just once,” he told her, “One Christmas, just recently.”

“Really.” Consolacion hummed. “Has it come true?”

“No.” Mabini sighed. “And it never will.”

He’d wished for happiness, in a lifetime with his Miong.

Consolacion pressed her side to his comfortingly.

“And why not?”

“I asked for a family.” He replied to her, and she looked up at him, surprise in her eyes. “A lifetime of happiness, with someone very dear to me. But—well.” He chuckled, and shook his head. “Now, that’s impossible.”

“You have _us_.” Consolacion said, “Sure, _Tito_ Noel and Andong are away with their own families, but—”

“Oh, it’s not exactly the same, little _lumpia_.” He told her. “When you’ve found someone you truly love, well.” He sighed, and looked down at his rose, remembering the days it used to nearly turn red. “Your whole world turns upside-down.”

Consolacion huffed.

“That reminds me of a friend I used to have.” She told him. “Luisa Bernal—oh, no wait. She never did get married. Bagon. Luisa Bagon.”

Bernal. Oh, Mabini remembered hearing about a Bernal. He’d been arrested, Mabini remembered, and he remembered hearing del Pilar talk about hunting his brother down.

“Poor girl.” He commented.

“Hm, I don’t know.” Consolacion huffed, petulant, and Mabini knew where she was going with this, with the way she pouted. “She’s dead, anyway.”

“Do you think she is a fool, my little _lumpia_?” he chuckled fondly, and she huffed, crossing her arms.

“Of course, _Ginoo_. All she chases after is love, and—and family, why not a career? Wealth? Power? Wisdom?”

“Ah, my dear girl, you are still but a child.” Mabini shook his head weakly, and he patted her temple, letting her rest her head on his thin shoulder as she sighed deeply. “Not all women are the same, little _lumpia_. There are some women, like you, and Doktora Isabel—career-oriented, not in need of a man by her side.” He stroked her hair, and sighed. “And then there are women like your Luisa, _Ginang_ Juliana Román, who prefer to settle down with the man she loves, and start a family.”

Consolacion frowned. “… I suppose.”

He pressed a kiss to her head, and sighed.

“You’ll understand someday.” He told her. “But for this year, I’m not going to make a wish.”

“Why not?” she asked.

He smiled at her, and cupped her face in his hands. “I’ve already gotten myself a wonderful daughter.”

She gaped at him, shocked for just a split moment, before she melted, smiling softly as she held the man’s hands on her cheeks.

“I’ve got my wish too, I think.” She said, her voice shaking, and the petal she saved falling off Mabini’s rose dropped to her shoulder. “I’ve finally found a father I could call my own.”

He smiled at her warmly, and kissed her forehead, and together, the spent the first minute of Christmas in companionable silence, listening to the music of the festivities play in the square.

The rose petal on Consolacion’s shoulder fluttered to the ground, ignored, forgotten—and that was for the best.

(Much, much later—after exile to Guam and the journey back, Consolacion lay on the cold varnished wooden floors of Aguinaldo’s office, bleeding, her blood pooling under her body, steadily growing cold. She spied it with her one eye, and, oh. It _was_ the same colour as her rose.

Above her, Aguinaldo stood, panting heavily, still in shock, and she thought to herself—

Good riddance. Served him right for not giving Mabini what he wished for.

Her rose wilted black, and the last thing she saw was Aguinaldo falling to his knees, hands reaching towards her, still in a state of shock.)


	13. LILIACEAE: Lilium (Archelirion Group), the Stargazer Lily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (bold, beautiful, young and dramatic)
> 
> Alternate Title 1: An AU of an AU, Where Everyone Is Okay and Alive and In Modern Times
> 
> Alternate Title 2: The Pairing Is A Trap, Sorry Twitter Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ginusto ko ito. pambawi sa tag, sa pananakit ko kahapon (kanina). HAPPY NEW YEAR’S EVE MGA KAPATID!!!!!!!!!!!! NAWA’Y MATUWA KAYO KAHIT SOBRANG IKLI LANG NITO HAHAH TAS WALA PANG KUWENTA
> 
> AU OF AN AU. HERE, TAKE THE ROSE AU + REINCARNATIONish AU + ACTORS AU. TAKE IT. BE HAPPY.
> 
> **i have nothing to warn you guys this time. it’s literally so super happy**
> 
> **s/o to team mo/ne/py sa twitter, mga bully kayong lahat :’((( HAHADEJK LABYU GUYS**
> 
> [tumblr version here](http://bukkun-moonsin.tumblr.com/post/136262023023/liliaceae).

Gregorio del Pilar was in a mild state of panic. He’d had less than three hours of sleep, had make-up in three minutes and _where the hell was his stage dad_?

He’d been freaking out for a good fifteen minutes now. It was nearing lunch time and the whole set was, in a nutshell, a clusterfuck, and while he was sure Emilio (uh, Aguinaldo, not the salty-looking PA that Andres had) was already in his costume, the royal blue military regalia the President was supposed to be wearing during formal occasions, but right now, where the _hell_ could he be, right when it was supposed to be _so damn easy_ to find him?

He hurried off into the crowd, practically a _sea_ of people around the set, and _why_ on earth were there this many people on set today? What was happening?

“Goyong, Goyong!” Rusca, ever the loudmouth of Artikulo Uno productions called him, and he faltered slightly as a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him aside.

“What the hell,” Gregorio hissed at the Yellow rose host, “Are you doing?”

“There’s something _huge_ happening today,” Rusca sounded excited, “And it’s going to be _amazing_.”

“I thought we were filming today?”

Rusca shot him a _look_ that had his eyebrow raised and his lips curled into a displeased pout.

 _He looked cute like that_ , Gregorio thought, and that was immediately followed by, _Jesus. Focus, del Pilar_.

“Looks like someone didn’t read the memo.” He crossed his arms, and he grinned at his co-star. “You’re just as informed about this as your _other_ dad.”

“… Who, I’m guessing is Sir Pole.” Gregorio deadpanned. “Jeez, Rusca, tell me what’s up.”

“Now I really won’t!” the man giggled, “I think I’ll hang around to see what your reaction will look like!”

“Now that _really_ isn’t fair!”

“Totally is!” José called from where he’d been walking, and Gregorio threw a balled-up paper Rusca pressed into his hand. “You’re still a loser, Goyong!”

His brother Manuel smacked him upside the head wordlessly and dragged him along.

“Now, I’m _really_ curious.” Gregorio, but before Rusca could speak, EJ’s voice rang through the set.

“ _Goyong to set please,_ ” he drawled from the overhead speakers. “ _It would be awesome if you hurried the hell up, thanks. No need for make-up, we’re just reading._ ”

Gregorio raised an eyebrow at Rusca, who snickered.

“Well?” he asked, “Go.” He urged, and Gregorio shook his head.

“You’re coming with me.”

The Yellow host simply laughed, letting Gregorio grasp his wrist, and dragging him along.

(And, if they felt their rose petals brush together, there was that little _zing_ that had their skin tingling delightfully, and twin tiny smiles crossing their faces.)

* * *

“And—action.”

They were in their casual wear, both Gregorio and Mabini, and nothing could have made them feel more comfortable with how… dressed up Aguinaldo was.

He was wearing his character’s costume—the full military regalia of the king he was playing in their show, in full make-up and everything, and looking absolutely shoot-ready, sitting up straight, already in character and everything.

Gregorio and Mabini shared a look, and they both swallowed nervously.

“My king—” Mabini started, reading from his script, but he’d already gotten into character, and Gregorio sat up straight. He’d better get into character too.

“My love,” Aguinaldo corrected him, as per the script, and the flush that crossed Mabini’s face was either _incredible_ acting, or adorably real. Gregorio wasn’t sure.

“ _My love_.” Mabini breathed like it carried his very soul, and Gregorio felt out of place in the presence of these two amazing actors. “The war is approaching. What on earth do you plan to do?”

“Not in front of the boys, my beloved.” Aguinaldo hissed mildly, taking Mabini’s hand to kiss it softly, and as the script had said, turned his head down to look away from him.

Mabini’s rose, blue and beautifully stark against the white of the table, closed up on itself, and Gregorio had to admit that _that_ was most _definitely_ _not acting_.

“Father,” Gregorio spoke up, spying his lines on the script and turning on that princely tone he always used, “I’m old enough to know about these affairs.”

“Oh, my son, you are _not_.”

Here, Rizal (absent, since it was his day off) was supposed to say his line, but quickly, Rusca rushed to sit beside Gregorio, breathless with running, in his hand their script as well and looking a real mess with his t-shirt and shorts and flip-flops.

“Yes we are, father,” Rusca read in his best impersonation of Rizal’s voice and it took all of Gregorio’s willpower not to laugh. Mabini and Aguinaldo weren’t. “Gregorio is your heir, and I—”

“Are still a student,” Aguinaldo cut him off sternly, but there was a knowing look in his eyes that he shared with Rusca, and Gregorio had a sinking feeling that that ‘ _huge_ ’ thing Rusca was talking about was going to happen very, very soon.

“But father—” Gregorio cut in, as per his cue, and Aguinaldo slammed his hand on the table, visibly worried, and _wow_ he was _good_ at this.

“Silence, the both of you.” He ordered, his purple rose blooming wide as ever, and even without the script, it had Gregorio and Rusca bowing their heads thanks to their rose colours. He turned to look at Mabini, who’d also lowered his head, and gently took his chin to lift his face. “My love,” he softly said, voice a song of apologies, and Mabini sighed into his touch.

(Dear _God_ , was this really acting, Gregorio wondered.)

“I’m sorry for raising my voice like that.”

“No, it’s nothing.” His voice was breathless, and _wow_. OK. Gregorio was in _no way_ as good as they were. If this was acting at all. “I—I’m alright.”

Aguinaldo’s smile was gentle, so loving, and he took something off the table—something Gregorio didn’t realise was there, mistaking it for Mabini’s rose, and _oh my god he’s seen that somewhere before_.

The next line in the script. Rusca’s huge grin at him.

_Oh, no. Oh, no, ohhhh no._

It all clicked into place, realization dawning on Gregorio’s face.

“I’ve something to ask you, my love. It’s of the utmost importance.”

_The war is coming to our home. Are you strong enough to let me go?_

That was what was coming, but then Aguinaldo stood up, and Mabini’s eyes widened—he’d realised that wasn’t part of the script—and he got down on one knee, and that earned him a light smack to the side of his head from a very, _very_ flustered Mabini. He was grinning wide, opening a small box that had a beautiful blue rose on it (the cheat. That was the giveaway at the Bonifacios’ wedding, just recoloured), revealing a simple silver band inside.

“Wait—Miong, you’re not seriously—” He’d broken character, but it was for a very good reason.

“Apolinario Mabini, co-star and light of my life, will you marry me?”

The set fell deathly quiet, and there was a long tense atmosphere that had Gregorio holding his breath without realising it—

But then Mabini smiled through the tears that dropped from his face, and that was enough. Enough for Aguinaldo, to get up and pull him into a tight hug.

“Of course I will, Miong.” He stammered into Aguinaldo’s costume. “I’ve always wanted to.”

The set exploded into cheers, confetti flying, and Gregorio realised that was why everyone was around. They were all waiting for Aguinaldo’s proposal, and well. He wasn’t his on-set ‘son’ for thing.

Gregorio had always been told he was a rather flashy young man. If his flower had been different, it’d been a stargazer.

He watched as Aguinaldo slipped the ring on Mabini’s finger, the both of them with poorly-concealed joy, and when they’d held hands and kissed, he stood up, much to the surprise of everyone.

“Goyong?” Aguinaldo asked, confused.

“I, too, have something to announce.” He said, “… Kinda.”

“Huh, what?” Rusca asked, but he yelped in surprise when Gregorio grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and _yanked_ him up into a deep kiss.

Needless to say, _that_ caused an uproar too.

It gave him a black eye (Rusca apologised for it later; he had a pretty… _violent_ reflex habit), a cut lip, newfound respect from José Bernal, and a brand new boyfriend.

“Not a decoration,” Rusca lightly chided, and Gregorio laughed, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Okay. Arm candy, then.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“I love you too.”


End file.
